Roses and Scorn
by Infiniscia
Summary: Rose Weasley wants to cement her title as the brightest witch of her generation. But Scorpius has been in her way ever since Hogwarts. If only she could get rid of him... Scorpius Malfoy has been keeping the Malfoy name from falling all his life. When his father is sent to Azkaban for the second time, Scorpius chooses a way of redemption that will either save or destroy...
1. Chapter 1

_Part 1: The Resistance_

* * *

 _Chapter 1_

 **Rose**

It came in a letter.

I still remember the parchment scroll, creamy white and high standard, in the clutches of a brown ministry owl. I still remember the scribble of lenient handwriting, long and scripted, in a simple paragraph on the page.

 _Rose_. It had started off simply.

 _I am writing to inform you that I have found an arrangement that will suit your request for practical work experience. You will be joining the temporary Head of the Auror Department, Roman Littlepine, at a meeting that will take place in two weeks in room Au3 at 20:00. It is about an upcoming covert operation I believe you will find challenging._

 _Fyes Pluvimber  
Head of the Aurors-In-Training  
Auror Department  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Ministry of Magic  
London, England_

The letter now sits on the desk, front and center, as if on a museum display. In my shared flat, the only audience other than me was my roommate, Celestia. That did not stop me from spreading the news to as many people as possible.

I had informed my dad first, who was once an Auror, now a happy co-manager of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

 _"_ _Work experience?" Dad says, his hand resting atop his rounded belly. His waistline has been growing larger ever since he resigned from his Auror position. "You're only eight months into training, Rosie. You've got plenty of learning left to do! Blimey, you're worse than your mother!"_

 _"_ _Stop it Ron." Mum says, and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. "I think it's brilliant you are already securing your future career."_

 _"_ _It doesn't make her any less of a snob." Hugo butts in, and takes a large helping of mashed potatoes._

 _"_ _I don't see you doing anything worthwhile." I shoot back._

 _"_ _I'm set. The Chudley Cannons love me." He says calmly._

 _I roll my eyes._

 _"_ _Be careful out in the field Rose." Mum says. "There's the Resistance-"_

 _"_ _Mum, field work is always dangerous."_

 _"_ _I know Rose, but the Resistance have sent many Aurors to St. Mungo's already-"_

 _"_ _I know mum-"_

 _"_ _-to die, Rose."_

 _"_ _I know." I take a bite of steak. "There is always a high risk in this career mum, you know it. Every criminal would wish an Auror to die."_

 _Mum's face turns disapproving, as it usually does nowadays. "You are treating this like a holiday. Need I remind you of Uncle Harry?"_

 _A heavy silence falls onto our dining room._

 _"_ _I haven't forgotten about Uncle Harry." I finally say._

 _Mum isn't having it. "He was the Head of the Auror Department, Rose-"_

 _I stab my fork into a green bean. "Well maybe mum, maybe he wasn't as good an Auror as you thought he was."_

 _Mum's face turns stormier. Dad clears his throat. "Rosie, your mum is right." He says._

 _Uncle Harry didn't even complete his Auror training. He got the job because he defeated Voldemort. But I didn't say it out loud. I say, "Okay."_

 _The rest of dinner continued in silence._

I never informed them of my training or career again.

.

* * *

.

I have two minutes to get to the meeting.

The Simulation Training today had gone over time. I don't even think about changing clothes or showering, and push my way through a few straggling AITs, and run to the lifts. I reach room Au3 in only a few minutes, and after taking a deep breath, I enter.

I am immediately greeted with a hard face that wears a permanent scowl.

The man, dressed in robes of all black with flyaway raven hair, sits at the head of the polished cherrywood table. He gives me an onceover. "You must be Weasley."

This must be Roman Littlepine.

He turns back to the paperwork spread out on the table in front of him. I was acknowledged and dismissed. Just like that. I stand in front of the doors stupidly, unused to being written off by anyone.

There are only two other men at the table, sitting across each other on either side of Littlepine. The one on the left had strawberry blond hair, a balding patch on his scalp, and a bushy beard that reminds me of Hagrid. The man across from him had dark hair paired with a pinched face.

I choose to sit beside the bushy bearded one. Something about his round face seemed friendly.

"Rose Weasley." He says when I sit. He reaches out a hand to shake mine. "Arabus Cantor."

"My pleasure." I reply graciously, and shake his hand.

His face contorts for an instant, and his grip on my hand tightens. He leans in.

"Just between me and you," he whispers, "I usually don't go for gingers, but you do seem like a night of fun-"

My face burns as I jerk my hand away. The heat of his hand still sears mine. "That's not what I-"

"Keep your voice down Weasley." Littlepine glares at me, his quill poised to write.

"Sorry, sir." I scoot away from Cantor, towards the edge of my seat. He stifles his giggles into his meaty fist.

The pinch-faced Auror watches us. "I've heard many things about you."

Littlepine looks up from his paperwork again. "Haven't we all?"

I don't say anything.

"What did you hear about her, Sorey?" Littlepine intones.

Sorey chuckles. "She is Pluvimber's beloved pet."

This bit is not surprising. It is common knowledge that I am his best AIT.

"Pluvimber always speaks so highly of her," Cantor adds, "I wouldn't be surprised if he foregoes her last year of training and dumps her right into Harry Potter's hands-"

Everyone glances at me as Cantor suddenly breaks off, and coughs. His eyes dart peevishly to his lap.

"It's fine." I say. But we all know it wasn't fine at all.

The room falls silent, and Littlepine goes back to his paperwork.

"Aren't we going to start?" I finally ask, when the silence becomes too stuffy.

"We are waiting for another member, Weasley." Littlepine's nasal voice rises. "Have some patience."

"Who is it?"

The double doors open at that moment, as though staged to answer my question. Then _he_ strides in with the arrogance that only _he_ held, with the carefree expression only _he_ had, dressed in the expensive robes only _he_ thought was appropriate for any normal day.

Malfoy. The member we were waiting for was Malfoy. I don't believe it.

"Are you lost?" I blurt out. Surely this is a mistake.

He looks at me. "No. But I suppose you are."

If no one else was here I would hurl every possible insult at his face. But since there were people here, I stay silent.

"Scorpius." Littlepine says. "Try not to be late next time."

I stare at Littlepine. I can't believe he sounded nice, and referred to Malfoy by his first name.

"I apologize, sir." Malfoy replies. "I thought it was inappropriate to come straight here, grimy and sweaty after simulation training."

I _know_ his words were a direct insult to me. I clench my hands into fists under the table.

"Not to worry." Says Littlepine. _Not to worry?_ That slimy little git had Littlepine swooning over him. That twat. That prick. He is going to have Littlepine eating out of his palm by the end of this meeting.

That cannot happen. If Littlepine must be charmed by anyone, it should be me. I'm the better AIT. I need to be the better Auror.

Littlepine starts introducing. "This here is Arabus Cantor, and this is Zane Sorey...and, I assume you know Weasley."

 _Weasley_. Was that disdain?

Malfoy nods once, not even a verbal acknowledgement, just a stupid obnoxious nod, and takes his seat across from me. I keep my face turned away from him. I don't need to spoil my vision with his retarded face.

I badly need an Advil, or some other muggle headache cure Celestia has in her medicine cabinet.

Littlepine flicks his wand, and a 3-dimensional map eases up from the tabletop, the smooth polished wood morphing and sharpening with details. The buildings have sunken windows, with the same sheen as the tabletop had. The streets are complete with wooden cars and pedestrians. This is a map of London. Littlepine points his wand at a building.

"Rollich has reported that this office building has not been used for days." Littlepine says. "That is unusual activity according to our muggle contacts."

Littlepine smiles, like he is thinking of a joke. "I do not believe that this is valid Resistance activity, but the muggles have been paranoid, and their please-men want us to examine the inside for any dangerous activity." He pauses. "And they are quite impatient that this examination is done as soon as possible. In other words, by tomorrow."

I notice that Malfoy doesn't react to any of his words, but spends the entire time staring intently at the little model.

"This operation is a Confirmation Scout." Littlepine says. "Your objectives are to report back any information found relating to the Resistance, _if_ it was the Resistance." He pauses again, bored. "I doubt it. The muggles are an easily frightened bunch."

He looks at me. "Any questions?"

"If this is a Confirmation Scout, sir..." Cantor says slowly. "Why are you sending out only two of us?"

"I am not sending two of you. I am sending four of you." Littlepine's voice is brittle like ice.

The shocked silence that follows feels like a slap to the face. Cantor opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it.

Littlepine smiles again. "What a lovely welcome to our newest recruits, Cantor."

Cantor's face heats up, and his eyes darting to Sorey, a fleeting image of indecision.

"I am perfectly capable." I address Cantor.

No one says anything. My frustration mounts. "Pluvimber wouldn't send me on this if I wasn't."

Still, no one says anything. Then Sorey opens his mouth, his face looks pale. "Shouldn't we bring in more Aurors, sir?"

"You heard the girl, Sorey." Littlepine says simply. "Pluvimber believes them both capable."

"You have greater authority than Pluvimber, sir."

"I trust my colleagues." Littlepine sounds dreadfully amused. "Do you not?"

"I am perfectly capable." I say again, louder. "It's only a Confirmation Scout, it's not some Track and Capture."

Another lengthy silence. Malfoy does nothing but stare at the map, ignorant.

"The Resistance are more notorious than our usual offenders, sir." Sorey says quietly.

Littlepine flicks his wand. The map sinks back, and becomes the tabletop again.

"Then you better hope those two will not fuck up." He says.

.

* * *

.

The pub is alive with the sound of conversation and beer tankards being picked up and set down again and again. No one pays attention to us. It's a good choice for discussing our plan. The dim lighting casts deep shadows on everyone's faces. The decor is hideous. We pick an empty spot near the corner. Cantor, saying that he needed to loosen up a bit, orders a round of drinks for all of us.

I need to get them to accept me before we leave for the building at midnight. The best plan is to do what they do, to try to look the part of an Auror. It is very unprofessional to drink before a covert operation, but Cantor and Sorey were both agitated and twitchy, like they had drunk too much coffee. Their short attention spans will not do when it comes to Confirmation Scouts. After some internal debate on professionalism, I decide it's best to drink with them. I watch Cantor, and take a sip when he takes a large swig. He smacks his lips. I couldn't do that, not with this beer. I hold back a grimace as I force myself to swallow. The aftertaste is worse than the sip.

Malfoy doesn't acknowledge his drink at all, the conceited prick. He folds his arms and leans back, his posture not entirely relaxed.

Sorey takes a long drink from his, and peers around him over the rim of his tankard. His wand flicks quickly at our surroundings. The background noise becomes muffled, and the faces become a little blurred. I don't recognize the spell he used, but it seems great for ensuring privacy.

"What spell was that?" I ask him.

He doesn't answer, but instead sneaks his wand back up his sleeve and takes another drink.

"How many years have you been in training?" Sorey asks, setting down his tankard.

"Not very long." Malfoy replies before I could open my mouth.

That bastard. Did he think he could speak for me?

"I'm almost a year into training." I inject, before Sorey could speak again.

Sorey's eyebrows jump in surprise. "Almost a year? You're joking."

I flush at his implications. "I'm the top of my classes, sir." I pause, and then add for emphasis, "Hermione Weasley is my mother."

"What a surprise." I hear Malfoy mutter.

"I'm the top of _all_ of my classes." I continue, speaking a little louder for Malfoy's benefit. "Pluvimber has said that I excel far more than any student he has taught-"

"Funny how he said the same about me." Malfoy says, nonchalant.

I keep looking at Sorey, "I'm the best at Stealth and Tracking, Muggle Relations, Advanced Duelling-"

"You're the best at duelling?" Sorey interrupts.

"Yes." I say.

Sorey's frowning. "I heard from Littlepine that Scorpius is the best at duelling." He turns to Malfoy. "He said that you have a sharp mind and a fast tongue."

Already, Malfoy was starting to win over Sorey without doing anything. That undeserving git. Littlepine was doing all of his advertising for him, and now Malfoy is getting ahead in his networking. I have to do more.

"I've beaten Pluvimber in duels." I say, and take another sip of my beer. I hope this is working. I take another sip. A long one.

Cantor nods. "That's impressive."

I beam at him. "Thank you."

"That's good." Sorey says. "It is procedure for a practised dueller to be part of the first pair to enter the building."

He pulls out a paper map from his pocket, and smoothes it in front of us.

"Here's the plan: Scorpius and Arabus would approach from the east." He draws out an imaginary line with his finger to the building. "Rose and I would approach from the west. We'll enter in the building first-"

"I don't agree with this." Malfoy says quietly, his eyes drifting from his untouched drink to the map.

Cantor and Sorey both look at him. "Why is that?" Sorey asks.

"Since the Resistance are not like the usual offenders you deal with, it would be unwise to choose...an unhelpful assistant."

My cheeks burn at his implication. "Are you suggesting that these experienced Aurors do not know what they are doing?"

"Are you suggesting that Arabus and I enter first?" Sorey asks.

"No." Malfoy clasps his hands in front of him. "I'm suggesting that you choose one of us to make the first pair, but you should choose the best contender. Otherwise, the operation could go very wrong."

I want to dump my beer on his pointed, disinterested face. I keep my voice steady. "My credentials are not a lie."

"I never said they weren't." He replies.

"Then you should have no problem with the current decision."

Malfoy brushes an imaginary crumb off the table. "I have a problem with the fact that better credentials are not recognized."

"They have already been recognized." I say, trying to keep the heat out of my voice and sound friendly. "They are being recognized with this plan."

"It sounds like you are not aware that there are better credentials." Malfoy replies idly. He looks at Cantor and Sorey with the slightest lift of his eyebrows. "She is not the only one who has beaten Pluvimber in a duel."

 _Fuck you, Malfoy_.

"It was more than one duel." I say.

"Two duels then." He says to them.

I can feel myself losing my forced friendliness. "Actually, it was a total of nine."

"Oh?" He finally turns to look at me, like I was a pesky fly that needed to be gone. "I've beaten him in a total of ten."

Cantor refills his drink for the fifth time, and downs it. Sorey's pinched face looks more pinched than ever, and his hand maintains a vice-like grip on his beer.

"Ten?" I fight to keep my voice civil. "I don't recall that happening."

"I'm not surprised you can't recall such things." Malfoy turns back to Sorey. "I also excel in Magic Tracing and Identification, Physical and Mental Extremities, Leglimency and Occlumency, to name a few."

"Leglimency and Occlumency?" Cantor looks genuinely impressed, and also very tipsy. "How far can you go?"

"I can bring out old forgotten memories." Malfoy answers pleasantly.

"And would you _need_ to do such on a Confirmation Scout?" I ask.

Malfoy ignores me.

Cantor's face is glazed from all the alcohol. Sorey heaves a sigh. "Very well. Arabus and Scorpius will enter first. I will enter ten minutes later with Rose."

I grip the edge of the table hard. "Wait, we should think this through-"

"No." Sorey rubs an eye. "Let's move on. It's almost midnight. We need to move."

He folds the map. "Cantor and Scorpius will do the first sweep, check all floors and make sure it's clear. Green sparks mean it is, yellow means it isn't, and red means there's immediate danger and that we must contact the ministry for backup before joining them." He looks from me to Malfoy. "Understood?"

I watch as Cantor blinks slowly. "Sir? Cantor looks a little..."

Sorey glances at him. "He'll be fine." He tells me. "He can handle a lot of alcohol."

By the looks of it, Cantor could not hold tonight's alcohol.

"Maybe we should go in first..." I suggest, gesturing towards Cantor. "I don't think he's up for it."

"He's gone into missions drunk before." Sorey says dismissively. He checks his watch again. "And as you have mentioned earlier Rose, this _is_ a Confirmation Scout."

I can't believe this. I chew the inside of my cheek.

Sorey catches the look on my face. "I know its unprofessional Rose, but professionalism becomes relaxed after years of service."

That was not what I was thinking of. But I let it go.

Malfoy is likely to mess up his task with a drunken Cantor, so when we report back to Littlepine, he will lose his favour.

.

* * *

.

The air was colder tonight than usual, like it was ushering me to get inside. But Sorey's orders were to stay put and wait for those dratted green sparks that are more than five minutes late.

The muggle café we are outside of is decently busy. Sorey chose it for the attention we would get, which is less than none. A few straggling muggles pass us, speaking in loud voices about a football game. On the street, a red car rushes by. Then a black one. I drum my fingers in a rhythmic cycle on the table between us. Sorey checks his watch again.

No one comes outside of the café to bother us. Muggles who slowly exit walk past as if we weren't there. I didn't see Sorey cast any spells, but I'm sure that he did. Like the one in the pub, I have no idea what it is.

With nothing to do but wait, my thoughts drift to training. We learnt hexes, jinxes, spells that were fairly challenging yet conquerable. Sorey's spells looked nothing of the sort, but unique and highly efficient. I wonder if it's part of the second year curriculum, or the third year. I think of asking, but remember that he had completely avoided the question in the pub. Maybe another time. The desire to know nags at the back of my mind.

"Should we go in?" I settle for that question instead. Sorey checks his watch. Another five minutes have passed.

"We will wait." He replies.

More waiting. I press my lips together tightly to suppress a groan. What were they doing in there that was taking so long? The building wasn't very big, and checking for people on the first floor takes around two minutes. They were taking twenty.

"Maybe there's something wrong." I say, my gaze wandering to the windows on the third and fourth floor.

Sorey checks his watch again. "Red sparks mean that something is wrong."

"Maybe they forgot." I say, searching for some excuse to convince Sorey to forget about the green sparks. "Cantor might have passed out drunk, and Malfoy forgot." I pause, then add on. "He's very irresponsible."

Sorey frowns. "Is that true? He does not seem forgetful."

I lie. "He is. He doesn't like to admit it."

Sorey frowns at the building. "I think we will enter then."

Finally! I try to keep my gait slow as we skirt around the main entrance and enter from the side.

It is pitch black inside. Sorey closes the door behind us and I whisper, "Lumos."

The lobby is sparse, with nothing but a metal receptionist desk. The windows and the main doors are covered in thick brown paper, keeping out all light. The air smells stale and of the dull grey carpet that blankets the floor. It holds an atmosphere of being out of use for several years.

"Do you know the background of this building?" I ask Sorey. My voice is quiet, as though I could not disturb the darkness.

"No." He says, distracted. "Scorpius and Arabus are not here."

Indeed they weren't. I tip my wand to my right. Here were two elevators and an opened door. Beyond it, into further blackness, was stairs.

Sorey peers at it for a long time. Cantor and Malfoy are not on the first floor. The door to the stairs is wide open. I can feel my thoughts steadily invoking anger. How many floors have Malfoy covered already? He never unintentionally forgot the green sparks, he wanted to complete this on his own. He wanted to make sure I never surpassed him.

That cunning bastard.

"I'm going upstairs." I tell Sorey, already walking towards the stairwell. I can hear Sorey trailing behind me. "I'm going to check the second floor."

"I'm right behind you," he says.

I proceed up the stairs cautiously, listening and examining my surroundings along the way. The stairwell is narrow, and with the darkness, the space felt eerily suffocating. When we get to the second floor landing, I yank open the door with relief.

It is a room full of cubicles. This is a workspace. The rows went on and on, desks close together.

At the end of the last row, a light was bobbing behind a cubicle.

We silently make our way over, and I pause just before passing the desk divider.

 _Use expelliarmus first, then stupefy_.

I throw myself into the cubicle, wand ready-

A wand is pointed at my throat. An inch away.

Malfoy's unamused face stares at me, his sharp cheekbones looking scarily defined by my wandlight.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Weasley?" He says coldly.

I bat his wand away. "I thought you were a Resistance member."

Malfoy stares at me for a long time. "If I was, you would be dead by now. Have you forgotten that barging in like a crazed hyena is a death wish?"

I narrow my eyes. "Actually, the element of surprise is far more useful than slithering about like some spineless worm. Especially when there is a team member with you."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "What team member?"

I look behind me. Sorey was nowhere in sight.

"But-" I stare hard. "He was just there..."

"Can't hold your alcohol?"

I whirl around, facing him. No Aurors. No holding back. "Fuck you-"

"Have I touched a nerve?" He says dryly.

"I am perfectly fine." I snap. "It's you who can't hold any alcohol. You were so cowardly you didn't even touch your tankard, you twat."

"If you say so." He says this casually, like we were talking about the weather. "I happen to remember you spewing your guts out in the Prefect bathroom after a-"

I jab my wand at his chest. Red sparks sing the cotten. "That wasn't alcohol, you stupid git, that was stomach flu-"

"And I suppose alcohol cures stomach flu?" He's completely unconcerned about the blackened spot on his shirt.

I growl in frustration. "You can try to waste my time Malfoy, but I'll still to do a better job than you on this mission."

He stops me, a hand yanking my arm back, as I turn to go.

I break his hold. "What the fuck?"

He doesn't try to reach for me again. "Cantor's already searching the upper floors."

I narrow my eyes in disbelief. "Both the third and the fourth floor?"

"Yes." He watches me intently, like he wants to anticipate my next move.

"And how many floors did you cover?" I will hex him if he says two.

"The first and the second-"

A bloodcurdling scream stabs the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note (7/30/17):

After a long and unintended hiatus, I've decided to leave Roses and Scorn. The story was becoming increasingly difficult to finish, and it kept getting stuck. That's when the hiatus started. I took the time to work on other things, and upon coming back, realized that the story simply could not continue.

That is, it could not continue the way it is.

So I've remade the story, kept some of the same characters, and gave this new story a new name. The new version has a different element. It's not about a group called The Resistance anymore, it's politics of a different nature, with different themes, and different dynamics. But at the heart of it, it is still a story about Rose and Scorpius, this tremulous time in the wizarding world, and the relationship that builds between them.

A big thank you to those who were interested in reading Roses and Scorn, stuck with it through the hiatus, and loved it when I couldn't. I hope you will find the new version even better, and look forward to its posting as much as I do.

The new story will be called _The Blue Seas Yonder_. More details are on my profile page, and if there are any questions, feel free to ask! :)

.

* * *

 _Chapter 2_

 **Rose**

"ROSE!"

It was Sorey's voice, raspy with pain. "UPSTAIRS ROSE! HELP ME!"

The scream that comes next freezes my muscles. I'm rooted to the floor in shock.

Malfoy is already darting for the stairwell, limbs moving swiftly. The closeness of his pale hair to his destination sends a jolt to my senses.

He is trying to beat me.

I swear under my breath and sprint after him. He has messed up and he knows it. To save face, he wants to play the hero, rid of the enemy and score the goal.

In the dark stairwell, his footsteps pound ahead of mine, a quickening _thump thump thump_ as he jumps up the steps in twos. I follow in vain, but he has always been stronger than I am, always been faster, and with his head start I am falling behind. I can't let him reach Sorey first. This is the chance laid out for me, and I have to take it and report Malfoy for the fraud that he is. He is no golden boy. Disobeyed orders. Didn't do a thorough check for presences of other beings. Sorey is screaming, and it doesn't take half a brain to figure out who this presence is.

The door slams shut in my face just as I reach it. It costs me a second to yank it open, and yet another to slide through the opening.

This floor isn't like the floor below, with the rows of cubicles. This floor is a series of corporate offices, lining one single hall that stretched all the way to the other end. The offices had heavy doors and thick glass reaching from ceiling to floor. It felt more like a prison than anything, with every office having nothing but blank walls and a single window. Moonlight shines through the square at a high angle.

Malfoy launches himself at this figure a few doors down and they fly through an open doorway into one of the offices. Sounds of a struggle are loud and violent. Malfoy is arrogant enough to think that he could arrest a Resistance member without a wand. I sprint. I'm going to use my wand and end this.

As I pass several doors, one office catches my eye, and my face jerks to my left to see.

The moonlight illuminates his face in the dark.

His eyes, blue like mine, are open and staring. His mouth is bloody, and the entire left side of his face is soaked in red. I let out a choked sound. I can see the dark pool on the carpet. It is a fresh red, still spreading out millimeter by millimeter.

He wasn't dead for long. He had just been killed.

The scuffle has stopped.

I look back to my destination to see her close the door behind her with a sharp snap.

The woman is pretty, and more so in the softness of the moonlight. Her golden hair, a much richer color than Malfoy's, is mussed in its elegant twist. Her green eyes have an exotic slant, a little like a feline's. Her upper lip is split, and there's a fresh bruise on her jaw. A long vicious scratch runs down her left cheek from temple to chin. Her wand is pointed at my chest.

I recognize this woman. I could recognize her anywhere, in fact. Mum worked with her a few times before. She told me that this woman was the brightest juror she has ever met, with a quick mind and the most fascinating stories. She came to our house for dinner a few times, bringing presents for me and Hugo. She knows my love for books, and entertained it with signed copies of wizarding favourites. She knows Hugo's love of chess, and bought him beautiful crystal pieces. This woman's nerve is something I've admired for many years, along with her rapid success.

"Expelliarmus." She says this with a flourish, and my wand zooms smoothly into her hand. I barely register what she had just done. She smiles.

I am beginning to realize that my hesitancy has determined my fate.

"So," she begins, twirling my wand like a pencil between the fingers of her left hand, "how lovely it is to see the daughter of Hermione Weasley again."

"Raina." I say. She had told me, in a charming voice when we first met, to call her by her first name. My mind is rapidly trying to reconcile those two images together. This woman stands with a predatory grace that reveals nothing of the bright juror I've seen. This woman has a purpose like a knife edge; lethal and with a thirst for blood.

"How's Auror training?" She asks, conversational.

I can't wrap my head around anything at the moment, except, "You're not with the Resistance. You can't be."

Raina cocks her head. "I'll assume your training has not given you much intelligence."

"Why?" I ask. I admired this woman. I _admired_ her. How is she one of them? "Why did you join the Resistance?"

Raina gazes at me, a coolness in her eyes. "Because they are right."

"No." I say. My breathing escalates. "You can't believe them. They've tricked you. It's what they do."

Raina lowers her wand an inch. She's pointing it at my abdomen. "I considered slitting your throat, but I'm starting to feel...creative."

"Raina." I say. My heart is thudding so fast my head spins. "You won't be able to look my mother in the eye after this."

"You underestimate me." She says. "Looking your mudblood mother in the eye is exactly what I want to do after this."

 _Mudblood_.

Never in a thousand years would I have thought to hear _mudblood_ in her fair voice.

"Don't say that."

She smiles wider in response and flicks her wand. I almost double over, but I force my instinct back. I keep my eyes on her, where her smile still speaks her pleasure. My hands can't help themselves when they reach for the wound. When I force them away from my stomach, they are slick with red.

She flicks her wand at me again, and I dodge, but not fast enough. Everything swims, and I distinctly hear my own voice, crying out as the pain spreads and spreads-

It's gone, and she's back to twirling my wand.

"That was merciful." Raina says. I'm on my knees, the shaking from the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse.

The Resistance either finish or never start in the first place. If I'm to make it out of here alive, I need to get my wand back. My wand beckons me from her slender left hand. I judge the distance between us. By the look of her face, sharp and assessing, tackling her right now is stupidity beyond saving.

"Is there anything I can give you to spare me?" I'm pulling anything out of my brain now. "Money? Help with the bodies?"

Raina laughs, her eyes scrunching adorably. It is a nice picture, if I remain ignorant about her purpose here for the Resistance. There's a sharp tang of bitterness and venom in her smile. I notice that her right hand slackens slightly, that her wand's aim falters.

I leap for her, and my impetus knocks her off balance. We both slam into the floor with a crash. She grunts, her head smashing hard, taking the weight of my upper body. I scramble to right myself and I punch her hard in the face. Her nose breaks. Blood streams down in fast rivets. Her eyelids are at half-mast, aimed blankly at the ceiling. I scramble for her left hand.

It's slack, and empty.

"Fuck." I look around on the floor. The moonlight only lights up chosen areas in the carpet, leaving the rest shadowy. My wand, walnut wood, would blend nicely with this muddy coloring. " _Fuck_."

There's a long object further down the hall. It might be my wand, but I don't know and don't care because it is a _wand_. I untangle myself from her and scramble up-

I feel the fall before I feel the strong grip around my ankle. I crash hard into the ground. My vision swims, and my lungs lose air in shock.

I can feel her weight on top of me, and her hand keeps my face buried into the musty carpet.

"You pack a good punch." Raina's voice purrs at my ear. "But hasn't anyone told you punch more than once?"

I struggle against her, but she's strong, her body stronger in this position. She keeps me pinned down. I try in vain to jerk her off.

"Careful, Rosie." She says. I hate the sound of my nickname in her voice. "We don't want to break a bone or two."

A brutal crash sounds from nearby, the shattering of glass, and the crunch of steps. I can feel Raina shift above me, jerking around to look.

"Expelliarmus!"

Raina's weight suddenly lifts off me, and I see her slam into the wall at the end of the hall.

Malfoy, black-eyed, leaning with his right shoulder propped against where the glass had been, looks murderous as he stares at her. He is breathing shallow, and his eyes are straining, like he was straining to stay conscious. His right arm looks bent just above the elbow, snapped. His fingers are curled around something, the angle abnormal.

"Idiot boy!" She snarls.

"Weasley, get out of here." He says. His wand is trained on her, but he doesn't do anything. "Get out."

I'm about to crawl for the stairwell but the realization hits me. Malfoy has burst into here, ready to fight Raina and arrest her. The minute I'm out of the room, I can't do anything. The fight belongs to him. He's trying his hardest to win his glory, the glory that should be mine.

My eyes zone in on the wand in front of me, a few paces towards Raina.

Using the last of my body strength, I launch myself in a painful moan. The feel of wood in my hand never felt so good.

"Fuck you, Weasley." Malfoy spits out from behind me.

He rushes past me, aiming for Raina, like a leopard leaping onto prey.

What the fuck is he doing? His wand is right there in his hand and he's still not using it. I raise mine.

Malfoy is wrestling her on the floor, their struggling figures hard to separate.

Of course. Now with them both fighting physically, I can't get a good aim at Raina. He's making sure that I can't win. Cunning bastard.

Raina pushes against his injured arm, and Malfoy yells out a string of curses before socking her in the face. Raina's head is rocked back a second time, slamming into the wall. He gropes for her hand, searching for a wand. His wand probably, that he lost while wrestling.

Malfoy suddenly falls away from her, just as she disappears. His face catches the moonlight, and I see that he is drained of all color, his jaw clenched in pain.

Malfoy is clutching his arm, wheezing and shaking. "She had a Portkey." He manages through gritted teeth.

"You just had to get in my way." I retort. I am beginning to feel the sharp pain in my ribs. Breathing is becoming more and more difficult. My clothes feel soaked and sticky. "I had her at wand point and you just had to jump in."

Malfoy says nothing, but closes his eyes. His breathing has become shallow.

I try to think through the pain, new pain that was coming in bits and pieces all over my body now that the adrenaline is wearing off. "Where's Sorey?"

"Dead." Malfoy slumps against the wall behind him, his face a sickly grey. "Fuck. Weasley, get us out of here."

I manage to push my shoe off my foot. I mutter the spell, and it glows. I don't know if Malfoy's fit for Portkey travel, and frankly, I don't care.

.

* * *

.

When I wake, my ears alert me of my surroundings first. There is a contrasting silence to the screams that my ears could not stop hearing.

I am aware of other sensations now: the stiff cotton of the typical St. Mungo's sheets, the bitter aftertaste of potions in my mouth. It still aches to breathe, a dull pang that resonates with every draw of air. I open my eyes.

I remember little by little the events that led to this. We had arrived at St. Mungo's in a crash of limbs and blood, Malfoy vomiting the minute his knees hit the floor, and I blacked out.

I feel the lasting effects of exhaustion, from the stiffness in my limbs, and the wary empty feeling that occurs after an extreme burst of adrenaline. Aside from that, my ribs and every other part of me seems patched.

My ears sense the sound of breathing that is not my own. I look to my left.

Littlepine.

He sits upright in one of those rickety St. Mungo's chairs, his feet planted solidly on the floor, his hands braced on his knees. He gives me a long look.

Littlepine is here for a reason. I think back to the building, seeing again Cantor's body on the floor, the dark pool of blood beneath him. Hearing Sorey's scream for help. Malfoy's livid face, white with pain in the moonlight. Raina's golden hair, coming loose from its elegant twist, her smile as she says ' _mudblood_ '-

"I have not written the mission report yet." I say.

"That is not your responsibility." He says. "You are still an Auror-In-Training. That responsibility lies with Cantor and Sorey."

In the silence that follows, I'm suddenly not sure if he knows.

"Neither Cantor nor Sorey has communicated with me." He says, his eyes are critical, hunting. "I received no message from them following the aftermath."

His statement is an unspoken question, and from the way his eyes are digging for clues on my face, he wants me to confirm his theory.

"They are dead."

He takes this in calmly, looking the usual, neither shaken nor surprised. In fact, he looked like he is indifferent to the lives of the Aurors working under him. But when he speaks, there is a restraint in his tone, "why?"

Why? Surely he can guess why. But a guess in the Auror profession means nothing. There has to be some confirmation, a spoken word, a written confession.

"Raina Greenwich killed them."

This news catches him off guard, but he closes away the indicators fast. His eyes had widened, but he directs them as the foot of the bed, letting himself think. "And how do you know?"

Raina, who introduced me to some of my favourite books. Raina, who took some precious minutes from her packed schedule to teach Hugo some of her chess strategies. It is hard to say her name out loud, and harder to think that she is part of the Resistance. "She came over for dinner several times." I swallow. "My mum worked with her before." In the lengthy silence that follows, I make myself say more. "I recognized her."

Littlepine's eyes are boring into the white sheets at my feet, his posture is rigid, and he's leaning forward onto his hands, as though he was a second away from bursting to his feet.

"Are you sure it is Raina Greenwich?" He asks.

"Yes." He seems to take this information as badly as I did, feeling the shock work through bones, and through memory. He is hiding the disbelief better than I am. "I know what she looks like. It is her."

He draws in a careful breath, his eyes distracted. He looks back at me. "You are sure."

I think of the way he openly accepted Malfoy during the meeting, and wonder if he would have believed my words long ago if Malfoy had been the one who uttered it. He probably would. Irritation begins to rise. "Yes, I am absolutely sure."

He says nothing, but returns his gaze to the foot of my bed.

He does not trust me. In his eyes, Malfoy lacks the ability to commit a wrong. He needs to know that Malfoy is the one who has turned everything into a mess, has done so because he wanted to look like a hero. He fought dirty with his twisted mind. He used every opportunity he could against me. Malfoy hid his intentions far too well. Littlepine wouldn't be so quick to campaign behind Malfoy if he knew.

"Sir," I say when Littlepine stays silent for too long, "there is something else I must tell you."

"Go on." He says, without paying a lot of attention. His concentration is directed to the bed.

"Malfoy let Raina escape."

Littlepine makes a sharp sound of drawn breath, and his eyes are back on me. His shock is completely unbidden, open for the world to see. " _Scorpius let Raina escape?_ "

He is trying to reconcile this news with the picture of the golden boy in his head, the boy who does all the right things, who is superior in every trade. But he can't, and I watch an internal battle wage as various stages of denial and disbelief flit across his expression.

"Yes." I confirm. "It was Malfoy who broke procedure and did not cast the green sparks in the beginning. He had run off to finish everything by himself, and in his haste he was not thorough with validating that there wasn't any presence inside before we-"

"How do you know this?" Littlepine's denial is pushing back, fighting to retain the perfect image.

"Raina was on the third floor. That's how Cantor died." This shuts him up.

Littlepine's face is pale now, and he is staring at me like I had just told him that Malfoy had died. "Raina was on the third floor." He repeats.

I can see the weight of it all sinking in, and his wasteful battle with the truth, his pointless attempts as he tries to ward it off. His thoughts are obvious. Raina was on the third floor. Malfoy hadn't been thorough, so he did not call for backup with red sparks. He did not even fire any sparks at all.

I am ready for his next question. I know what it is.

"You are telling me," Littlepine says, "that Scorpius disobeyed orders."

"Yes."

"Do you believe that Scorpius truly...?"

He lets it hang in the air.

"Yes." I say. "Malfoy wanted to take the glory sir. Instead of using his wand to subdue Raina, he decided to tackle her, which led to her escape."

Slimy little git had been afraid then that I would fire a few quick spells and leave him with nothing to soften his mistake with when we had to face the authorities. It only made his mistake ten times worse.

Littlepine says nothing. He swallows hard.

I continue, seeing that the last walls of denial are breaking down. "Even after, when I had my wand aimed at Raina, he still leapt in my way to restrain her by hand. He did not follow protocol sir, he only followed his..." Arrogant belief that he can do everything on his own. "...ideas. He believed them to be better than the orders of veteran Aurors."

Littlepine has taken to staring at the opposite wall.

"Very well." He finally says. "I will speak to him about this. This...is not appropriate."

"I agree sir."

"I," he says, with some difficulty, "thank you for your excellent report."

"I aim to do my best, sir."

He stands up, stiffly, like his joints had locked together. He takes another deep breath. "Good day Miss Weasley."

 _Miss Weasley_. I beam at his retreating back. No more _Weasley_ with disdain, but _Miss Weasley_ , with respect.

.

* * *

.

The morning had been long. My entertainment was counting the seconds that passed and my distraction was both the hope of the familiar red and grey streaked head visiting, and the dread of what might come out of his mouth. What those words meant was more dismal than the other thoughts that were swirling around my mind. Occasionally, I wondered if it would have been this bad if I had been placed in the same room as Malfoy, but I instinctively imagine that the situation would be far worse. Staying in a single room is the lesser evil of rooming with a blond git.

My wish was granted once I heard voices outside my door hissing about keeping it short so I could rest. Then, the door eases open, and Pluvimber's head pops in, along with the rest of his tall frame. He doesn't look at me, and my heart thumps a little harder. He gives his undivided attention to the door as he closes it, closing it so gently I could not hear it click shut.

He walks over to my hospital bed, his eyes cast on my right. He takes his time, treating his steps like a wall between the inevitable and the present. He reaches the edge of the bed and prepares to sit, but hesitates, and straightens. I watch him as his eyes fall on the rickety chair Littlepine sat in yesterday, and his slow movements as he goes all the way around.

He pulls the chair two steps back, and after another moment of consideration, sits carefully. His long legs can't cross like they usually do in the low seating, and he adjusts. Crossing his ankles made him freeze for a moment, because his feet stretched too close in proximity to me. He tried settling his ankle on his knee, but the chair's armrests didn't permit that. To him, there's no rush to find a comfortable position. He tries sitting forward in his seat. He is delaying this where he can.

But the anticipation for those words only stirs more dread and anxiety in me.

He does not look me in the face. He hasn't since the moment he walked in. I wait for him to speak, almost want him to, but he settles for the same sturdy stance Littlepine took—two feet planted like a man ready to fight—except his toes are pointed in. He folds his hands, dropping his elbows on the armrests, and still says nothing. His shoulders hunch in. I am staring at him, willing him to talk, because I don't want to be the one to say it.

In the awful silence, I start counting the seconds again. I want him to speak. I want him to tell me what he is here for. I don't want him to tell me that. I want him to tell me what he thought of the assignment. I don't want him to tell me that either. I want him to open his mouth and stop making me anxious. I don't want him to open his mouth and tell me that I am...

I try to focus on his presence but his presence today is not the confident, reliable mentor I know. It is not calming having him in that chair, sitting far enough to tell me that he'd rather not be here. The distance bothers me and _if he would just say something_ -

I turn my eyes to the ceiling to distract myself. My breathing is loud. I need to concentrate on something else. Take my mind off this possibility that he'll say-

Fuck it.

"It wasn't my fault." I say, looking at him.

He closes his eyes and lets out a long, low sigh. He doesn't say anything.

My heart thumps a little faster.

I need to know if he thinks that I'm...

"Did I—" I stop. I swallow hard.

"Did it disappoint you?" I keep my voice neutral.

Pluvimber's hands cover his face, and he sighs again. I can feel the fear start to manifest in reality. He is killing me.

"No," he finally says, "but it was a shock."

He lifts his head from his hands, his green eyes looking like they've seen too much. They come to a rest on my face, then dart away fast. Pluvimber disappears behind one hand this time. He massages his temples and breathes through his mouth.

I need to know...

"It wasn't my fault." I tell him again. _I need to know_.

The lines on his forehead deepen, the way they do when thoughts are in turmoil, and I cling onto my bed sheets. _Please_.

"Rose..." He begins. He won't face me. He looks to his side, at the floor, where I can't even be seen in his peripheral vision. "I don't want—I have to consider the safety of the Aurors-In-Training."

I will him to look at me. He doesn't.

"Safety is important..." He continues, softer, as though there was no audience but himself. "It's important, and so are lives..."

"A problem like this is so rare." I say. "If it wasn't for Malfoy—"

"I'm not cleared to hear about the details of this mission." Pluvimber interrupts, back to looking at his hands.

I stare at the ceiling. "It isn't my fault."

"I believe you." He says. "But safety is important."

"I know."

"This could happen again—"

"It won't happen again." My voice almost cracks at the end. I swallow. "I can promise you it won't. I'll train harder. I'll always obey the instructions. I'll—"

"People can still die even if you take all the precautions, Rose."

I shut my eyes. _Please_. "But that's the career I'm heading into. You can't prevent injuries. It's part of the job."

I hear my own breathing and nothing else. It is another awful silence. I open my eyes and find him with his eyes closed, shoulders slumped.

"You still have two more years of training." His voice is low.

Two more years. That's plenty of time for Malfoy to find the opportunity to be the greater wizard. Then not only would I lose my title and reputation but I'd have to try to beat him and gain back everything I lost to him. It'll be losing the long running score we have ever since Hogwarts, when neither of us could beat the other, only in various classes, but never overall the better. Two years is a risk I can't afford. If I want to come out of this with a victory, then I need to be one step ahead of him. I can't be prohibited from getting work experience. If anything, Malfoy should get it. He's the one who messed up. He's the one who deserves it.

He's dragging me down with him.

"If I went on more assignments." I try. "Then I would be more used to fieldwork and it'll be less likely that I'd get injured."

Pluvimber stays silent.

My nails are digging into my palms. _Please don't take this away from me_. "I promise I'll try not to get injured."

Pluvimber is immobile.

 _Please don't do this_.

Pluvimber heaves a long sigh, and his shoulders slump more. "Rose, I rather that you were an average student. You don't need to do this to be stellar."

I raise my eyes to the ceiling again. They sting.

"You are already stellar, Rose." He continues. "You don't need to do anything else."

 _Please..._

"I don't want..." He restarts. "I don't want the Aurors-In-Training to end up..."

Like the others. Like Uncle Harry. I could have ended up like Uncle Harry. One curse could take away everything.

One person could also take away everything. Stupid, stupid Malfoy.

"I..." Pluvimber says. "I'll think about it, Rose."

 _No._ That's what it means.

I blink several times. Ceiling. Ceiling. Ceiling, ceiling, ceiling, ceiling, ceiling, ceiling.

Pluvimber's still there.

"Don't you have to work today, sir?" I say.

The intent in my voice is clear. He rises awkwardly. "Get well soon, Rose."

I try to focus on the ceiling, on him leaving, and on the peace that I'll get once his presence is gone.

Once the door snaps shut, the silence is overwhelming. I hear my own rapid breathing, and my chest feels tight. I want him back here. It's harder to keep the sting away when there's no one around.

.

* * *

.

 **Scorpius**

When I enter the reception area, a few eyes swing towards me. It happens gradually, like a disease, spreading over the seated witches and wizards, then the healers. There is a lull in the boredom and noise. The Welcome Witch at the reception desk is oblivious, or at least, disinterested, for she continues speaking in a loud voice, "that's Potion and Plant Poisoning, third floor."

I don't lower my face, nor avoid their gazes like others do when subjected to rude staring. I do what I always have done: meet every pair of eyes head on. The first pair is a nice shade of brown. The witch blushes in embarrassment, and quickly rifles her copy of Witch Weekly. The next pair is green, a male. He does not drop his gaze like the she did, but instead holds mine with astonishment.

"Isn't that Scorpius Malfoy?" I hear a little girl whisper.

 _The healers_ , I thought, _would have done well to offer me a private exit instead of merely informing me that I was free to leave_.

I can feel the heavy press of eyes on my back as I pass by the seats. The door is ahead, just behind that woman. The sooner I get out the better.

I halt.

Mother.

She stands at the entrance wearing a muggle coat of the latest fashion, her neck swathed in heavy jewels. Her hair is swept up in an elegant knot at the back of her head. She is recognizable, yet not. Her eyes, like everyone else, are on me.

"Scorpius," she says, "how lovely to see you."

She is grappling for formality, which she prefers to have straightaway, but at this time she does not seem to notice what she is showing. She looks to restrain herself from coming closer to me, from holding my face in her hands.

I am slow to come up with the right response. There is only one reason for her to be here. "Mother. How have you been? Should we talk outside?"

She examines me, her eyes lingering on my face the longest. "It's been too long." She finally says, the smallest tremor in her voice. "Let's go home."

.

* * *

.

Her manner today is not as reined. She is struggling to withdraw from her emotions. Her gait is not measured, but a little fast, and her mouth is clamped shut to keep a well wished thought from blurting out. To see the effect of my long overdue presence is as disquieting as I thought it would be. My mother, who took blow after blow from the public for staying with my father. My mother, who raised me single-handedly because my father hid from the world. Her only son is her raison d'être, and I am cutting the ties. If she wishes to hurt me with her words, I have deserved it. But she will never.

The path up to Malfoy Manor is neither long nor short, but a walk drenched in silence. She holds her head level, her chin a strong structure that I did not inherit. I have my father's sharp pointed chin, along with his pale hair and grey eyes. The look of a coward who hid even from the sun.

"You have not visited since graduation." She says upon reaching the doors.

Graduation. I do not want to think or speak of that period of time.

I say, "I have been busy, mother."

With a great amount of effort, she exhales and grips the knocker. One tap. The door, magically sensing an owner's presence, swings open.

Herzy is waiting to take my mother's coat as she enters. The little house elf holds out her hands, eager to do her duty. It's a sight that mirrors early summers when I stood out on the steps, fresh from another year at Hogwarts. Herzy, looking less aged then, had greeted eagerly 'young master Malfoy' and managed all of my possessions for me, leaving me free to walk inside and consume myself to whatever I pleased. Herzy does not speak as my mother enters, but her orb like eyes show delight at my shadow, falling over her tiny height. My mother dumps the coat into her hands without a second glance. "It takes a personal invitation to convince to you to return." She says to me. I step inside.

The foyer is still the same. It has the same opulence, the gilded furnishings, the overly artistic details on the staircase, the enormous chandelier that drips in crystals and diamonds. The exception is the colors of Alice blue and Navajo white decorating all surfaces, instead of the old lush brown and gold. I can smell a perfume of roast and gravy. The other house-elves are in the kitchen preparing lunch.

"I have a meeting in a few minutes."

She stops in her path, and gazes at me, her mouth in a disapproving frown. "You're always busy."

I say, "you have the foyer repainted again."

"Brown is out of season." She follows my gaze to the gilded designs on the staircase handle. "I will have that changed to match everything in a week."

"Everything?" I am not surprised. "If you keep on remaking the manor, you will spend the entire family fortune."

She says, "what is this meeting about?"

"It is confidential."

She does not look pleased. "Is it with Littlepine?"

"Yes."

The smell of roast is joined by the smell of onion soup.

"How much are you planning to spend this year?" I ask.

"If I end up with a single knut, so be it." She says starkly. Then, "if I do, will you sell your flat?"

I judge her stance, and her face. It holds a sorrowful quality, one that makes guilt rise in my stomach. "I can be here for Sunday's dinner."

"Can you?" She's doubtful.

"It's a promise."

She considers it, as though I would break my promises. She will accept, just as I will keep it, and she knows I certainly will.

"Herzy is making your favourite dessert." She says.

"Ask her to make it again on Sunday."

Her satisfaction comes slow, beginning with the smallest release of tension from her shoulders, and the loosening of her upright posture. "It was simpler when you were still a boy."

"When I was a boy, all I had to worry about was school."

"Your ambitions have taken a new character." My mother crosses her arms. "Changing the views of the public does not occur overnight. Proving yourself can't happen in a rush, Scorpius."

"It will."

"You don't need to prove yourself." She says. "Scorpius, you are not your father."

It aches to hear those words. They are spoken in the same way she has always spoken about the media. She forgoes the sugar coating.

"I'm glad," I say, "that you can tell the difference."

She gazes at me, yearning for something, before turning away completely. I am given her back. "Be here on Sunday."

"I won't forget."

I pull out my drawstring bag from my pocket, and take out the portkey that had been specifically assigned to me. From the leather bag slides out pin. On its golden surface sits a carving of a dove. Peace, says the inscription underneath. Malfoy Manor disappears as my navel is hooked by an invisible force. My mother's back is the last sight I see, rigid once again with tension, hiding her grief.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 1: The Resistance

* * *

 _Chapter 3_

 **Scorpius**

His kitchen is a bright, cheerful yellow from a variety of mundane and exotic plants that cramp his small kitchen. I duck around one of his large ceramic bowls that's brimming with some sort of golden fern, hanging low from the wooden ceiling beams, and carefully step over a group of cacti that sprout honey yellow buds. There is a new addition to this gallery. A cluster of pots sit beside the straining marigolds, devouring the sunlight with their intertwined vines and leaves. This is the only plant in the room that is not yellow. It has a rich shade of poison green.

The heavy, dense scent of the outdoors hasn't changed since my first time here. It had only been a few days after graduation and I was less aware, unsure, and terrified. Roman had sat me down at the small dining table, a thing not built for two, and asked me how I was doing. That was the start of a series of visits that lasted into this year, always beginning with his inquiry.

Roman is pouring tea, his black robes a contrast to the sunny atmosphere. He doesn't acknowledge me, which bothers me, but I shrug that away.

I take a seat at the dining table. In front of me sits a new magazine with a note: 'Managed to get a copy of the newest edition for you, mate – Neville'. On the cover sits an over-glorified picture of a garden gnome, sticking his tongue out at the camera. I'm about the turn the page when I see something green coming towards me in my peripheral vision; I turn just as Roman gives the vine a light slap. It recoils, and withdraws itself sulkily to its poison green nest.

"That's the feeler." Roman says, and sets down a chipped teacup in front of me. The steaming cup of Chai is reminiscent of the evenings here, playing rounds of exploding snap while Roman's jazz music records played in the background. Seeing him in the afternoon was unusual. He had said at St. Mungo's that it was an emergency, and that it was important we discussed it before Jane's arrival. He didn't tell me what ' _it'_ was.

"It's called a Sootgnaw." Roman adds. "Neville gave it to me."

I look at the green tangle of vines—no, feelers. Most of them were still, save the few that were swaying in leisure. The one that reached out for me begins poking the stem of another sootgnaw.

"They're great for cleaning fireplaces. Gets all the soot and ashes. It's their diet." Roman says.

That feeler, seeming bored, starts nosing its way to the marigolds. Roman sees this, and leans over. The feeler isn't fast enough, and receives a smart slap. It petulantly retreats once again.

"That one's got personality." I say, over the rim of my cup. "You ever get poked?"

"They don't like to poke." Roman says as he settles back into his seat. "They like to tie people up."

I take a sip. "Kinky."

It eases a smile out of him, but he reverts back to his sullen energy. He raises his teacup to his slightly pursed lips.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I ask.

Roman's hand jerks and he sprays the tea across the table, taken over by a coughing fit. He sets the cup down with a thunk, and his chest heaves with the effort. I run over to him and thump him hard, telling him, "Cough harder. Cough harder." It is redundant, but I say it until he gets the last hack out and slumps into his chair with his chest straining, face red, and eyes tearing.

"Thank you, Scorpius." He says, raspy.

A small laugh escapes me in relief. "No, no. Thank _you_ for spewing tea onto my shirt."

Roman laughs weakly. "You happened to be right across."

"Where else could I sit?" I'm grinning. "In your lap?"

Roman grows quiet. "No, Scorpius."

"I'm not that heavy, you know—"

"That was not appropriate."

My chest feels cold from the wet spot. "I was joking."

Roman seems distracted. He stands. "I'm going to get my wand."

I take out mine, "Scourgify."

The tea is gone without a trace, the table untouched.

Roman stares at the clean surface. He says nothing for a long time. "Thank you again, Scorpius."

I stuff my wand back into my back pocket. "So what did you want to talk about?"

Again, Roman says nothing for a long time. The choking incident does not look innocent anymore.

"What is it?" My eyes are narrowing. "We only have a few more minutes before Jane comes."

Roman clears his throat. "Er...Scorpius. Don't..."

...Don't?

Roman clears his throat heartily. "I know you're worried, but you shouldn't be."

I gaze at him. Surely this is not a talk about my wellbeing. I wait for him to say more, but the lasting silence might not ease an answer out of him. He seems protected by the silence; it is a delay of whatever he wanted to say...

"...That's not it, is it?"

"Well." Roman turns away from me and picks up his teacup. He goes to the kettle and hesitates before pouring another cup of tea.

I follow him to the counter, following close. "Well?—"

"Scorpius." Roman says, his pitch a little high. "I told you to not worry."

"Worry?" A velvety voice fills the kitchen.

Jane's here.

I step back from Roman, and turn to her.

She's dressed in black, her dark hair and eyes as cool as her demeanor. Her height towers over Roman; the fact is more obvious with her uplifted chin. Her eyes meet mine for a mere second and I immediately glance away; it is like staring into a soulless shell. She takes two blindfolds from inside her cloak, silky fabrics that shimmered in the light. I take one and glance at Roman one more time.

Roman's face is turning white, his fear a stench that is rapidly strengthening. It's not uncommon around Jane, she has that effect, but with everything that he has said—

"Scorpius." Jane's tone is unamused, impatient.

I tie my blindfold around my head, and I am immediately greeted with a sense of oblivion as my sight, hearing, and sense of smell are taken from me.

Jane's lips brush against my ear, accompanied by a touch of her breath. She knows I can't hear what she says, but it feels as though I know, for the feeling leaves me goosebumps that linger as she Disapparates with us.

.

* * *

.

 **Rose**

When I enter the reception area, the Welcome Witch jerks her head at me, and her eyes light up. Then like ripples in a pond, more eyes begin darting over, spreading out over the entire mass of the waiting population.

I am at the center of attention to every witch and wizard in this room, a scrutiny under their eager eyes, wearing the ugly rumpled Muggle hoodie and jeans that the Healers gave me. I try not to think about how I must look. I can feel blood rushing to my face, but I remind myself: smile, acknowledge them, and they'll love you.

It _is_ that easy.

I smile back at the Welcome Witch, whose smile then becomes a full blown grin. A witch waiting in the line with a green monstrosity for her left arm waved it with a little too much enthusiasm. I give her a small wave back, and her face morphs into an expression of stupefied glee. I remember Uncle Harry telling me about the time he went into the Leaky Cauldron at the tender age of eleven with Hagrid, and was mobbed by the sheer mass of fans he had there—many who kept wanting to touch him. _"_ _Be yourself, Rosie. Don't worry about how to act."_ He had said once during my visit to his bedside. No matter what sort of advice he gave over the years, I still needed to take several breaths to prepare myself. _"_ _You will get used to addressing admirers."_ He had added.

Admirers? Is that what they really are?

Everyone here stays in their spot; no one approaches me. If this was a street setting, I would be mobbed just like Uncle Harry had been.

A little girl breaks away from the crowd, and darts over to me, her big brown eyes reminiscent of Lily. She must be about five, with rosy cheeks and two short pigtails. She clasps her hands like a plea to her chest, "Mummy tells me that big witches are busy, but will you please reply to my letter soon?"

Her fan letter. They're at my parents' house, where I haven't visited for two weeks, where it has become a popular owl destination ever since I came back from my first year of Hogwarts. They were admirers, gushing over how much I resembled my mother in the brains department, and that they were sure I was destined for greatness like my family. They talk about what they read in the _Daily Prophet_ , in _The Quibbler_ , and other various magazines about my going-ons, and rushed to put in their own comments.

This girl, though only eight, is no doubt another one of the usuals.

"Uh, I'll try my best." I say, wondering what I should do. I don't know how to deal with children. "What's your name?"

"Hermione." The girl chirps happily.

I try to seem unbothered. I look at the mother, who just beams with pride in response.

"Uh, Hermione, I'll look for your letter and reply to it as soon as I have time." I say.

"When will you reply to my fan letter?" A sullen teenage boy with acne speaks from his seat beside his squat father.

That seems to be the cue for other questions and protests to rise. People begin standing up from their seats, demands pouring out. The waiting witches and wizards in the line begin breaking from it, leaving the Welcome Witch behind.

"I owled you twenty seven times already!" Cries an indignant witch from the far back.

"I've been busy lately." My words fumble out as my eyes darting to the exit. The doors are not that far off... "I'll get to you the best I can. I need to go now."

Protests resound, loud and brash. I give everyone a weak smile and start for the doors as other voices begin reprimanding those who were groaning. I catch a snatch of "She said she's busy! Give her some time and respect!" and "You can't expect her to sit all day writing back to thousands of letters!" as I try not to run to the door. At least there are some that understood. A middle aged wizard holds it open for me, an appreciative look in his eyes as they travel to my chest, "Muggle clothes look great on you, Rose."

I force a smile at him as I dash out. _Muggle clothes look great on you, Rose_. I fight back a shudder.

The sun is blinding, a small joy for the day. I yank my hood over my head as I try to block what just happened from inhabiting my memory. Hopefully none of the gossip reporters caught sight of my red curls. Cars fly past, and Muggles walk in a brisk pace without a care for business outside of their own. I trudge on behind a giggling couple, walking south back to my flat. That discomfort that I experienced in the reception area refuses to disappear from my thoughts. _"_ _You'll get used to admirers, Rosie."_ Harry had said. Get used to them? I shove my hands into my pockets. Did you ever get used to them, Uncle Harry?

A flash disrupts my vision, and for a moment, I don't know where I am.

"Rosie! Give us a smile!"

The gossip reporters have found me.

I'm crowded by witches and wizards in Muggle clothing, some sporting cameras, others notepads and quills. They are all jostling each other to get the ideal spot in front of me, ignorant of passing Muggles and their curious glances. I spy the couple in front of me stop and turn around. The man slips out his phone. He must think that I'm some Muggle film star he doesn't recognize.

"Rose! Is it true that you and Scorpius Malfoy almost died?!"

"Can you tell us what you two were doing?!"

"What injured you, Rose?!"

I push away the hands that were reaching for me. My hood slides off. A sharp pain sears the back of my head. Someone grabbed a fistful of my hair and was yanking it to get my attention. I turn around and rip his hands off, my head throbbing.

Flashes go off, capturing my violent act, my scowl, and the complaining reporter. "I'm bleeding!" He keeps on saying over and over.

"Go away." I tell the crowding reporters. "I'm not in the mood."

"Smile, Rose!"

"Rosie! What are you wearing?!"

Through the gaps between their heads, I see a few Muggles with their phones out, filming the whole ordeal. I groan under my breath. Not like this. Don't film me like this.

"Is it true Scorpius Malfoy saved your life?!"

Who said—

I wheel around to find a woman with a greasy face full of makeup, her quill poised in the same manner her eyebrows were raised—with aloofness. She's pleased that she has managed to get my willing attention, unlike her competitors around her. "I'm with the _Daily Prophet_ , Rosie. Just tell me a few quick words about the experience—"

"I was not saved by Malfoy!" I tell her. "And I'm not allowed to tell you anything—"

"A few quick words will do, Rosie. Tell us why you were in St. Mungo's."

"Don't call me 'Rosie'!" I add. "And it's confidential—"

"Is it true that you have a secret affair with Scorpius Malfoy?!"

I whip around to the reporter who said that. A short, round bellied man with a bad comb-over. He is wearing a 'I'm a Muggle reporter' t-shirt; trying too hard to pass for Muggle paparazzi to avoid consequences with the Ministry. "Sources have told us—"

"Your sources are bollocks." I snap. "We do not have any relationship—"

He scribbles with his quill furiously, "Defensive about sexual relation—"

"I DO NOT have any sort of relationship with him!" I want to rip his quill out of his hands, but the cameras are ready to document every move I make, so I keep my hands at my sides. This is the fourth time this month, and I can't do anything. It started during the last year of Hogwarts, the gossip columns spreading tales of my 'threesome habits with Lorcan and Lysander', then my 'frequent activities' with Professor Longbottom. They went even farther after, claiming that I liked to 'get on top of Albus Potter' on Friday nights, and I had thought that was the worst they can do.

Now they've paired me with Scorpius Malfoy. Dad is not going to be happy with the papers when the newest editions come out.

I try to get through him, but a reporter behind him blocks me with his arm. "Is it true that Scorpius Malfoy is good in bed?"

"I wouldn't know!" I jerk myself away from him. "Why can't you ask him?!"

More flashes. I feel sweat growing profusely under my arms.

The reporters are like a dense wall of flesh all around, and I can't get out by asking nicely. I would need to shove them, and they will put that into the papers, but I need to get away.

"How long have you been seeing Scorp—"

I thrust aside the round-bellied wizard and his assistant behind him. Their cameraman reaches for me, but I shove the camera into his face and he stumbles back.

"Rosie—" Says a female reporter, unlucky enough to be stuck at the edge of the crowd.

"Fuck off." I tell her, evading her outstretched hand, and sprinted.

Muggles and their phones turn to follow me as I pound down the street and around the corner. If I turn enough corners I should be able to lose them.

The smell of vinegar wafts by as I pass a fish and chips shop. Muggles look at me funny as I sprint by Nando's, and cross the street as the traffic light changes from amber to red. My curls are loose, freed from the stuffy hood. I rake a hand through my hair and keep running, slowing to a more sustainable pace, and turn around another corner. The blinding sun now feels worse than a rainy day, the midday heat made sweltering in the clothing I'm wearing. I wheel around a McDonald's, and finally stop.

I think I'm safe now.

I hate myself as I drag the hood over my head once again, and head for the street of my shared flat.

.

* * *

.

It's a relief when I reach home. I'd rather Disapparate, but the Healers said to stay away from magical means of travel. It's safety advice for Aurors that I've never seen dad follow. But I'd rather not splinch like he did.

The floorboards creak when I step inside our flat and close the door behind me.

There are two people who should not be here.

The single room that makes our entire flat is proof of our meager bank vaults. I got the shabby curtains from Knockturn Alley for seven Knuts, but I had to suffer a week of getting rid of the Doxies that lived in the folds. The lamp came from Celestia's mother, who gave it because it was broken. Celestia repaired it. It stands by itself beside the closed window. The coffee table was from Uncle Harry; we were so desperate for a table that we didn't care that it sang ear-shattering opera and once belonged to Great Aunt Muriel. We spent another week finding ways to make it shut up.

My bed is cramped right beside Celestia's, the yellowing comforter patterned with red roses, a gift Uncle Harry thought was amusing. Mum sits with dad on her left, while Celestia sits cross-legged on her own bed of plain blue stripes.

Mum's eyes are steel. Her foot bounces up and down, and her back is as stiff as an ironing board.

"I'll go get some tea." Celestia says once her eyes meet mine, and slides off. She squeezes her way past the small stove, and leaves our flat.

I'm left alone.

Mum's face looks too poisonous to stare at for long, so I look at dad, who's looking at mum, his blue eyes nervous. Dad doesn't want to address me.

My insides shrivel. I cross my arms to get myself together. The sweat from earlier is cold and clammy against my skin.

"Where were you?" Mum asks.

"Out." I answer shortly.

"Out." She repeats.

"Yes."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I stare back.

"Why were you out?" Mum asks.

She knows exactly why I was out. This isn't a visit for fun. She's here because I didn't tell her.

"Don't lie to me." Mum says, her tone a warning.

"I'm not."

Mum's frown deepens. "Did you plan on telling us at all?"

 _No_.

Mum waits, as immobile as a statue. Dad is still looking at her nervously, his eyes occasionally darting to the ground, before darting back up.

"I don't want to talk about this right now." I say.

"We will talk about this." Mum says.

Dad scratches his ear. "'Mione, why don't we talk about this when Rose is feeling better—"

Mum scowls. "No, Ronald. This conversation is never going to happen unless we do it today."

"We can set a proper date for this." I snap. "Instead of you barging in—"

"If I didn't barge into your flat would you have told me?!" Mum stands up.

I meet her eyes dead on. "I will not talk about this right now."

"Yes we will, Rose Weasley!"

"Quit yelling at me!" I snap.

"You didn't want to tell us, did you?!" Mum shouts. "You could have died, Rose—"

"I'm fine!" I reply. "I'm not talking about this now—"

"—and we wouldn't know!—"

"'Mione..." Dad says weakly.

"I'm fine!" I shout. I feel hot and cold and sick in the stomach. "And the Healers and the Ministry would tell you if I was dead!"

"—you're making us worry too much—"

"It's not my fault you choose to worry over that!—"

"—it doesn't take more than two minutes to owl us when you were doing the assignment!—"

My eyes are stinging. "Shut up mum!—"

"—No, you listen Rose Weasley!—"

"—Shut up! Shut up and get out! I don't want to talk about this right now!—"

"—Why is it so hard for you to tell us?!—"

"—Why is it so hard for you to understand that I DON'T WANT TO TALK RIGHT NOW!"

Mum takes a step forward.

"Rose Weasley." She says, her tone low, her eyebrows a V, her mouth twisted downwards. "You didn't speak to us at all for over two weeks."

"It's just been _two weeks_ —"

"You were so eager to tell us about your auror training and now we don't hear a syllable from you." Mum snaps. "And then you turn up at St. Mungo's and we had to hear about that _from the Daily Prophet_ —"

"It's confidential, mum!" I yell. "You know that just as well as I do!"

"You could have said something!" Mum jabs her finger at me. "You could have said 'I'm going on a dangerous assignment, mum'—"

"It wasn't meant to be a dangerous assignment!" I'm shaking. "None of us thought two people were going to turn up dead!—"

Mum's face turns white. "And that could have been you!"

"—None of us thought that would happen!" My nails are biting into my palms. "That's the nature of Auror work, mum! Ask Dad! Ask Uncle Harry! You know what it's like so don't give me bullshit!"

"Then I'd rather you quit pursuing suicidal work!"

I reel back. Mum's lip is quivering, and her scowl is set in stone. Dad is rubbing the back of his neck, allowing his eyes to look at nowhere else but the floor.

"You're so fucking selfish." I burst. She was never happy about my career choice.

"I don't want to see your face again." The stinging is getting worse. "Get the fuck out."

Mum doesn't budge. She opens her mouth.

"I've heard enough!" I scream. "I'd rather you get out!"

Mum speaks anyway, "I'm going to talk to Pluvimber. You are being far too reckless—"

"Reckless?!" I go up to her face. "Tell him whatever you want, mum, and it won't do anything! I'm already prohibited from assignments! You want to make him kick me out of Auror training too?! Go ahead! I fucking hate you!"

A dead silence follows.

Mum says crisply, "I'd rather you go on assignments when you are ready, Rose—"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OR I SWEAR TO MERLIN _I'LL_ FUCKING LEAVE!"

Dad stands. "'Mione, Rose just got back from St. Mungo's."

Mum says nothing. She continues looking at me with anger, immobile. I rip my wand out from my hoodie pocket, and dad stands.

"Rose needs rest." Dad insists. Mum doesn't acknowledge him.

I close my eyes and concentrate on a place to stay...the Leaky Cauldron perhaps...

I hear a crack of Disapparation. I open my eyes to see only the sofa. Peace settles over the space, jagged and distorted as mum's words continue to assault my head.

In the ringing silence, Celestia's footsteps are too loud as she enters, keys jingling. She holds a cup of bought tea and a blueberry muffin.

At the sight of her my tears leak out.

She balances it on her bed and puts her arms around me. "Just let it out." She says. "Let it out."

.

* * *

.

 **Scorpius**

I know we have arrived when the feeling of suffocation vanishes and I am left with a hyperawareness of my surroundings. The floor beneath us feels like hardwood. It feels like the same place we Apparate to every time, even though the route we take to the conference room always changes; whether is it a change in the direction or the number of steps, all is intended for Jane's privacy.

We are amongst her most trusted, yet Jane treats us as though we sided with the Ministry.

Jane has not steered us nor given any indication to start walking. I realize that my arm is still around her waist, still clutched as it had when we Apparated, and I drop it as if touching her burned my skin. I take a step away from her as well. Even blindfolded it is uncomfortable to be facing her. I can feel her eyes boring into my skull.

I have counted seven inhales when I feel her hand, a gentle touch, steering my shoulder clockwise. I shift with her guidance, my shoulder feeling far too sensitive for my liking. She controls my body with professionalism; her hand glides down my back and gives me a slight push to indicate her wish. I begin to walk forward, counting the steps, overtaken by my awareness of her proximity. If I stopped, I am sure her body would have collided with mine.

Her hand snakes back to my shoulder, a firm grip that signaled 'stop'. I make a mental note that this time had been fifteen steps, two less than last before. I wait for her to open the door and push us through, my stomach churning with the tea that does not seem to be digesting.

The atmosphere of the conference room feels familiar, like the Apparation spot. Unlike the Apparation spot, I know its appearance. Jane removes my blindfold, untying it slower than I would have liked, letting the fabric fall and glide off rather than pulling it over my head.

Finally the damned fabric is gone and I blink several times as the room grows clearer. It is a chamber befitting a duchess, with large French doors that are obscured by heavy cream drapes, neatly in a row. A garden is beyond that, groomed with the same elegance and precision; the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle wafts in despite the closed doors. Thin streamers of light highlight the soft Egyptian carpet from the cracks in-between the curtains. Fat floating candles bob above us, taking its leisure to ascend the length of the high ceiling before sinking back down.

The room takes a rich, earthy glow from the golden accents and chocolate wallpaper. It is like the colors of Malfoy Manor before my mother redecorated again. If the owner of this place is not keen on updating the decor, then I will be able to tentatively call Malfoy Manor home once more.

The oblong table is made for twenty, forged of red tinted wood with baroque details. A single woman sits waiting, her chin delicately propped against her hand. The blonde vixen gives me her trademark smirk.

"How was St. Mungo's?" Raina asks.

"Words fail to do it justice." I reply. "You should have been there yourself."

"My loss." Raina says, grinning now. "I had to help Roman clean up the dead bodies. How is dear Rose Weasley?"

"I think we should save those questions for Roman." Jane says. She shifts behind Roman.

She has removed Roman's blindfold and her eyes have a murderous glint. Roman seems to shrink, his ashen pallor worsening.

"Well, Roman?" Raina stands, walking the length of the table to us. "What has happened with Rose Weasley? I heard from the Daily Prophet that she was in St. Mungo's. Did she enjoy it?"

His Adam's apple bobs. His eyes glue themselves to the floor.

"Come on now," Raina says. "Don't be shy. None of our other colleagues are here. It's just the three of us, your favourites..."

Raina's heels clack loudly as she nears in deliberate, even steps. "...nice and private..."

Roman's mouth trembles for the briefest moment.

"...which I'm sure..." Raina's reached us, her white teeth gleaming. She makes a vague gesture with her wand, "...you love."

I automatically insert myself between Roman and Raina.

"What are you doing, Scorpius?" Raina says. It is a rhetorical question.

"The table has plenty of room." I say. "Why don't we sit?"

Raina cocks her head.

"I don't want tomfoolery." Jane's voice is quiet, but rings out through the chamber. "Raina, is it true that Rose Weasley appeared on the scene?"

Raina casts a look at Roman, ire curling her lip. "Why else would the Daily Prophet inform you of her visit to St. Mungo's, Jane?"

"Scorpius?" I feel the weight of Jane's gaze on me. "I assume you had something to do with Rose Weasley?"

I look at Roman, who refuses to look at me.

"As you have guessed Jane, there were complications." Raina says dryly. "Rose Weasley and Roman were at the heart of it—"

"The complications were dealt with," I say, "by me."

"Oh yes, _perfectly_." Raina says, sarcastic.

Jane steps closer to us. "I'm not here to watch the both of you squabble. I want to hear a full report. Now."

I speak before Raina could. "Roman invited Rose Weasley into the execution, but she was under the impression that it was a Confirmation Scout—"

"Which we established, Jane, so the chances of Ministry interventions were below zero." Raina interrupts. "But it looks like Roman thought sending in a Ministry lover would amuse us."

Jane continues to watch me. "Continue, Scorpius."

"The problem was that she has a...an eagerness to accomplish—"

"Eagerness to accomplish." Raina repeats. "You and those choice words, Scorpius. You can't soften the blow, you know."

She knows Roman is fucked and is enjoying it.

"Which would lead her to interfere with our plan in some way." I say. "So I convinced Cantor and Sorey that I was a better candidate to enter the building first, as according to Confirmation Scout protocol, and handed Cantor to Raina when we went in—"

"It was clever of you to get him drunk." Says Raina. She's smiling, and it's genuine. "Imperio, I believe?"

"Yes." I notice Jane's impatience. "But instead of killing him straight away like you had ordered, Raina thought it would be fun to torture him."

Jane heaves a long sigh and turns her dark gaze to Raina as Raina's sweet smile turns frosty.

"I can't soften the blow, you know." I say to her.

"Raina," begins Jane. Raina shakes her head sharply.

"Don't lecture me, Jane. I always do what is best for the Resistance." Raina says. "Those traitors deserve nothing less than a long, painful death—"

"I gave you orders." Jane says.

Raina's cheeks flush delicately. "You know it wouldn't result to this if Roman had not _invited_ "—she sneers—"Rose Weasley."

Result to what? I look at Roman again. What is going on? Is this what Roman couldn't tell me?

"Result to what, Raina?" Jane says sharply.

"Rose Weasley knows me." Raina says, her eyes locked on Jane's. "And guess who she saw when dear Scorpius couldn't _deal with the complication_?"

Fucking hell. I dart another look at Roman, whose back only hunches further in response. Jane doesn't look surprised, or angry. She looks neutral, but her dark eyes are chips of ice.

"I couldn't _deal with the complication_ because Sorey broke your silencing charm." I say.

Jane says quietly. "You tortured Sorey too?"

Raina scowls in admittance. "Perhaps you should have kept her out of the building—"

"Too suspicious." I say. "I could only distract her. By the time I arrived on the third floor you should have left!"

"I can't leave, Scorpius, when she appeared right behind you and recognized me!"

"I had to force a fucking Portkey onto you to get you to leave!" I yell back. "You almost compromised my identity trying to kill Weasley!"

"If you had let me kill her, then _my_ identity would still be hidden!" Raina's wand shoots a spray of yellow sparks in her anger. "You made a mistake when you attacked me, Scorpius! Even when I fought you, you still were thick-headed enough to save Weasley—"

"How would it look if I was the only survivor?!" I'm gripping my wand hard enough to snap it. "I can't afford to have the Ministry suspecting me because I was the only one who made it out alive—"

"Because of you, the fucking Ministry will _arrest_ _me_!" Raina screeches. "All because of you and Roman!"

"Enough, Raina." Jane's voice rings out. Raina steps back, chest heaving, her cheeks bright pink as though she ran across the entire globe. "I'll think about your situation more." Jane turns her gaze away from the drapes and to Roman. "When I am alone."

She pulls out her wand. "As for you, Roman, not only had you disobeyed my orders, but you also managed to expose one of my best lieutenants..."

Without thinking, I raise my wand and point it at Jane.

* * *

Author's Note:

I will be updating _Roses and Scorn_ every 3-6 weeks, on Friday mornings. At the end of each new chapter, I'll have a note saying in how many weeks the next chapter will be out, and I'll add a date too. If there's any reason that I'm unable to post on said day, then I'll let you know on my profile page.

I'm thinking of adding a little something about the 'behind the scenes' or my own thoughts while writing each chapter. Would you be interested or nah?

Aaaaaaaand, Chapter 4 will be posted in 4 weeks from now (no, not because it's chapter _4_ , haha) on the 9th.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 1: The Resistance

* * *

 _Chapter 4_

 **Scorpius**

"What are you waiting for?"

Jane's voice, though a smooth velvet, is not pleasing to my ears.

I'm thinking of Confringo, then Sectumsempra, then Bombarda. I'm thinking of the effects whilst staring at her sleek dark hair and that skull beneath it. I'm thinking of it while my wand is pointed at her head, feeling crystal clear, but I'm only thinking about them. I did not cast them non-verbally.

The heat on my face is cooling rapidly, vanishing as the thud of my pulse seems to slow to a standstill.

I realize Raina's wand is trained on me, the focus of an assassin, and that my blood has run cold.

What am I doing? My hand is quivering and the wand tip is unsteady. Jane looks over her shoulder with an arched brow, her face marked by the golden glow of the candles.

"Well?"

Jane's wand is fixated on Roman's heart. In that second, her wand might as well be fixated at my head, her eyes boring into my skull, saying Confringo, Sectumsempra, Bombarda because she knows that she can.

I have just made things worse for him. He knew all along, when he told me to not worry, when he couldn't tell me what he had done because he knew I might interfere.

Jane does not like interferences.

With a shaky release of breath, I drop my hand. My wand skitters out of my fingers from the force. Raina picks it up with the litheness of a dancer, and twirls it, lowering her own.

"I can break it for you." She says.

My wand is a disembodied limb that is spinning in between her fingers. It's useless asking for it back. They'll chose to give or to keep, like always, because they can.

I tear my eyes away from Raina and meet Jane's.

"I'm sorry, Jane."

My apology is hoarse, the words breaking and rumbling in my throat as it closes and makes it hard to swallow.

"You're sorry?" Jane says.

"Yes, I—I didn't know what I was doing—"

"Oh, look at that, Roman." Raina cooes. "How sweet. The boy cares for you."

"No, I—"

"No?" Jane's eyebrow climbs higher. "Then don't mind me while I..."

I have never seen Jane use the Cruciatus Curse, though she is known to use it often. Every lieutenant under her has, except me.

Roman's scream saws right through my bones. His voice assaults my ears, a plea that I can't answer to, and drills itself into my brain, tearing at my flesh. I watch as the veins in his neck wish to break from his skin, and his eyes bulge as though his voice is forcing itself free from there as well. His back arches, and his chest protrudes so far that the buttons on his shirt pop off one by one...

"Jane." I say weakly.

She ignores me.

I can't hear my breath, but I know it's stuttered. I can't feel my arms, my legs, nor my face. I can feel a distant beat, but I can't be sure that it's my heart. Surely this is not my body, the body that is standing here, frozen to the screams of a man. Surely this is not him, this is not Jane, and not Raina. This is not the Resistance.

It is. _It is._ This is what I chose to join.

Jane clenches her jaw and Roman's screams become louder, the pitch climbing higher, piercing my ears. I want to block out the sound but I can't. A drop of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth.

"Jane." I feel my lips moving, but there's no sound.

Roman's crying, his eyes staring into the ceiling as though there was a savior who would take pity on him, his fingers shaking so hard they want to break off.

"You have to hear him out." I say, but it's drowned out by Roman's pain, his desperation seeping through the smell of blood and sweat.

Jane's entire body is taut, her attention focused solely on the contorted body at her feet.

He's levitating now, shaking, a spasm so frequent and violent that his lips vibrate visibly along with the rest of his limbs. His right leg is bent at an unnatural angle, twitching, twitching, twitching, and won't stop bending the wrong way. His screams don't cease, but they change texture, like new metal to rust. A wretched smell fills the room, and sick begins bubbling up from his stomach, spilling out over his mouth, cloaking the damning sound. He shudders harder, his eyes widened to the point where I'm sure they will rip themselves apart, and he flings out an arm like a drowning man trying to stay afloat. A feeble cough erupts, followed by another, and this man is fighting to regain control of his body over the pain, fighting to breathe...

"Jane." I croak out. I can't breathe either. " _Jane_."

Raina says, "Scorpius, you didn't even last two minutes without a protest."

This can't be two minutes. This must have been an hour, two hours, three. This must have been somewhere along the path to eternity, for no sound can exist like this for so long...

His knee snaps. It sounds like a gunshot amid the choking, amid the silence of the watching.

A choked sound escapes my lips.

Fresh blood drips off the glistening bone and sinew, dark against the fabric of his pants, a palette of red and white and black. He gives a bodily jerk, his mouth stretched wide, but no sound comes out. The coughs are gone. The limbs still twitch.

" _Jane_." My voice is stuck. "Jane, _he can't breathe._ "

Jane does not stop.

His face is turning blue.

"Jane!" My voice rips itself from my chest. " _Jane!_ "

Raina grabs my arms and twists them behind my back. She hisses in my ear, "Be good, Scorpius. Don't make it worse for yourself."

" _Jane!_ " I'm still screaming at her. " _That's enough! Stop it, that's enough!_ "

His eyes meet mine. It's not a person who stares at me, but a shell. His head twitches like a caught bug while sick and crimson smear his cheek in thick layers.

Then it all disappears. He flops onto the carpet, his eyes wide and glassy.

Everything will be fine, he said. Don't worry, he told me.

"You are too soft, Scorpius." Raina says from behind me. "I should have spent more time on Cantor just for you."

Finally, Jane turns to me, her eyes less cold. "He's not dead, Scorpius."

The smell of Roman's sick burns my nose.

"He...you didn't—you didn't hear him out." I hear myself say.

"You think I can't guess?" Jane turns to me, undeterred.

"But—" I stop. But he didn't get a chance to tell his story.

"But?"

I stare at my feet. Was there really any use arguing with her?

"Here's what he did, Scorpius. He took an order from Kingsley Shacklebolt to place Rose Weasley in one of the recent assignments for work experience. He decided to put Weasley into the execution mission, because Shacklebolt suggested it." Jane pauses, studying me. "Because a Confirmation Scout would not risk a life. And foolishly, Roman accepted Shacklebolt's suggestion."

"Foolishly?" I say. How is she certain?

"Yes, foolishly." Jane says as Raina smirks.

"You blame him for listening to the Minister for Magic?"

Jane says. "The Minister for Magic has nothing to do with this."

This is not making sense. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is the Minister for Magic—"

"You are beginning to feel like a nuisance to me, Scorpius Malfoy." Jane says icily.

I take a shaky breath and shut my words away.

"If you don't trust me, go ahead and ask Roman some day." Jane continues.

The lasting silence beats at my skull. Roman...he looks dead.

"You are dismissed." Jane's parting words, spoken softer, warmer.

I hesitate before turning to Raina. She tosses me my wand, the smirk still evident.

Jane takes a silvery pouch from her cloak, and holds it out for me on her palm. My fingers brush her skin when I take it, and I flinch. The right corner of her mouth tips downwards.

The Portkey is inside, a blue ribbon curled neatly. I dump it onto my palm, clench it hard. Roman's not dead. Roman's not dead.

He looks dead.

As an invisible hook pulls my navel, I hear Jane say, "Don't visit Roman again."

.

* * *

.

It has only been a day since the Resistance meeting.

We are in a single line down the hall as Pluvimber checks our uniforms one by one. There is no moving, no speaking, and no looking. Eyes must face forward, hands must be at one's sides, and feet must be together. If someone's posture is not straight, it means extra laps to run. During an inspection, no one wants to be pointed out.

Pluvimber, with his hands clasped behind his back, stops in front of Stevenson. His vivid green eyes rake over the cropped chestnut hair and the smoothness of skin free from stubble. He stares at the double buttoned jacket and leans closer, his eyes narrowing.

"There is a smudge on your button, Mr. Stevenson." He says. "Go clean up."

"Yes, sir." Stevenson breaks from the line with his head bowed, his shoes moving fast on the carpet, eager to get out of scrutiny.

Pluvimber steps in front of me. He does the same routine, checking from head to toe, his eyes travelling down in a precise manner.

"Well done, Mr. Malfoy."

I give him a sharp nod. "Thank you, sir."

Someone makes a small impatient huff. I don't need to turn my head to know that it's Weasley.

Pluvimber gives me a faint smile and moves on.

An hour passes as he examines the thirty-six of us. The slow laborious routine has come to an end when he moves from the end of the line to the front, walking in slow, long strides. His robes drag against the carpet behind him, hanging off his thin frame. His hands are clasped behind his back, left hand over the right. He paces the length of our line, taking his time to choose.

"What is a witch or a wizard without their wand?" He stops in front of Weasley.

Weasley's mouth is open before his words finish registering in everyone's minds. "They're helpless because they can't use magic."

"Correct." Pluvimber sweeps on. "It makes us vulnerable."

He stops in front of me. "Everything we have done so far has used a wand, with the exclusion of studying theory of course. Mr. Malfoy, how will you attempt a mission without your wand?"

I can feel the burn of everyone waiting for me to say the correct answer. How would I attempt the mission without my wand? I can't.

In my peripheral vision, Weasley's hand shoots up into the air. She's biting her lip, her foot tapping subtly.

I say, "It depends on the mission, Sir."

Pluvimber's smile is faint. "Very good. And how would you attempt a mission with someone else's wand?"

Weasley's arm stretches higher, rigid, foot tapping even faster.

"Today in Simulation Training," says Pluvimber, "you will not be using your wands."

Weasley deflates and drops her hand in a surly manner.

He steps backwards until he meets the opposite wall, waving me forward. I break from line, feeling the weight of everyone's curious thoughts. He then approaches Weasley, his auburn and silver hair glinting as he passes under lights, and gestures for her to step forward.

"Please." He says, clasping his hands behind his back once more. "Switch your wands."

It takes more than a few seconds for that to sink in, and I look at Weasley.

She's staring at me with a neutral expression, but her eyes burn. Her wand is being strangled in her grip, and I know she wishes that it was me in her fist.

"Now." Pluvimber's tone becomes authoritative.

I approach her with my eyes locked on her face. Every step I take feels wooden, and when my hand rises and offers the very object that contains my strength, I want the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

But she's still there in front of me, the top of her head reaching only my chin, her blue eyes glaring into mine as she plucks it from my palm with her index finger and thumb, like it's a diseased animal.

Neither of us move for the longest time.

"Your wand." I say, tersely.

A flash of a scowl crosses her face before she slaps her wand into my hand, the action gentle enough that onlookers wouldn't notice her hostility.

"Excellent." Pluvimber says. He peers at Stevenson as he returns to his spot in the line. "Stevenson, why don't you switch with Burclove?"

Stevenson blinks, looking from Pluvimber, to me, to Weasley.

"Switch, sir?" His voice rises an octave.

"Yes. Now." Pluvimber gestures at Celestia.

She steps forward and swiftly hands over her wand. Stevenson stares at it, a little baffled, and then hands over his.

"Excellent." Pluvimber says again, and then moves onto the next pair.

.

* * *

.

The Simulation Training room is made of a glowing, pearly white. I squint along with everyone else as we enter into the pulsing, sharp light, our feet marching upon smooth black marble floor .

It is large, spanning several kilometers outwards from where we've entered, from the center of the circle. The veil ripples like water as each person steps through, the ripples spreading and dying as the last Auror-In-Training has entered the Simulation Training room.

The silence follows. We wait, holding our breaths, shifting our feet further apart to prepare for the inevitable.

"There is thirty-six." The same cool, female voice from the lifts resounds. "Do you agree or object?"

Weasley's voice rises above all other voices, answering with a superiority that rings out. "Agree."

A click sounds. Then a chill settles over everyone, like ice-water trickling slowly, slowly, slowly from the top of our head to our toes.

And the dome whirls into a blur, high winds blow from nowhere, whipping our hair, and the light grows painfully bright.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the winds both hot and freezing against my skin, and the jolting and shuddering of the floor tosses me off balance. I grunt as I hit the marble floor, the cold as jarring as the pain that shoots up my elbow.

The winds rise to a complete roar, and I can hear someone saying something faintly, but the words are stolen and gone before I can comprehend them.

Then it suddenly stops.

The first thing I notice is that my right arm and leg are soaked. There is soft slime under me, sticky and drenched with water.

I open my eyes to find myself in mud, surrounded by tall reeds and grass, and accompanied by a thick, curling fog.

The smell is just as thick, pungent, stuffing my senses with the world of woodlands and swamp water. The fog drifts, its tendrils reaching out and touching my chest, lingering. I grip Weasley's wand tighter as it moves its way to my face, sliding up my neck, my jaw, and touching the corner of my mouth.

"Scorpius." It whispers. "Scorpius."

Around me, the rest of the fog echoes my name. It closes in on me, growing thicker, making it hard to see anything past a one meter radius.

I point my wand straight ahead. "Reducto."

A red jet smoothly slices through the fog and leaves a long streak of cut grass and reeds in its wake. Weasley's wand hums in my hand in approval, almost...eager.

I shake the curiosity out of my head and focus on the fog, which is now filling in the gap that I've made, condensing again.

I begin walking forward, pushing through the humidity, batting away the fog that swims to greet my face, echoing a faint 'Scorpius'.

This is not a normal Simulation Training class. The ones that we have done so far involve mock missions in cityscapes, buildings, and once, the Underground. I bat away more fog coming towards me. The Simulation Training room can design any location, and generate any target or assault. But this—I brush away some reeds—is nothing like before. This is as unique as Pluvimber's request to switch wands.

I take a breath and focus my mind on the mock assignment. Find your partner and retrieve your wand, Pluvimber had said. Return through the door to gain the points. Be the first to return if your partner also retrieved their wand from you.

The mud squelches beneath my boots, the mud swallowing the soles, unwilling to let go. Find Weasley in this place? I squint through the swimming fog. I need to look for the color red. I need to think of a strategy. Pluvimber had said that the Summoning Charm is not allowed for today's assignment.

I look at Weasley's wand in my hand, the smooth wood fitting into my palm in comfort, the dark brown a slash against my pale skin. I'm surprised by how easy it is to hold it, how simple it is to use it. The only difference between using my wand and Weasley's is the fact that mine fits my palm with familiarity, and hers is a stranger.

I shake an oncoming thought from my head. Focus on the goal, not the unimportant ideas. I wave my hand at the fog ahead, clearing enough to see a decent stretch of reeds and grass. I push through the green strands, the dew and the humidity clinging to my shirt and sticking to my skin. Sweat builds at the base of my neck, and my collared shirt feels tight. I unbutton the top three buttons while the whispers continue to speak my name.

A few meters in, the landscape doesn't change. It is still grass, still reeds, and still mud. My feet are becoming cold from wading in the muck for so long, and my hands have a few cuts from the stubborn reeds that won't budge. The whispers are also swarming around me, repeating my name to the point where I hate it more than I already do.

I hear a rustle to my right.

I stop.

As I wait, the whispers seem to sharpen, becoming clearer.

I slowly crouch. They're giving away my identity and location to whatever is approaching.

Another rustle, and the whispers seem to grow, mixing, blurring...

I listen harder. No, they're not just saying my name, they're also saying...

"Richard."

"Richard."

"Richard."

A hand swipes some reeds aside and Stevenson's standing there, panting.

I stand up, my joints making a slight cracking sound.

Stevenson slumps, his hands on his knees. "I thought I heard your name. How long have you been crouching there?"

I straighten my uniform. "Not that long."

Around us, the fog and the whispers interchange our names. I wait for him to speak.

He clears his throat. "So, uh, did you find Rose yet?"

"No." I reply.

Stevenson's chuckle is full of relief. "I haven't found my partner either. Her wand keeps rejecting me, won't let me cast anything."

With a sigh, he straightens and looks at Weasley's wand. "How's that working for you?"

I change the topic. "Is there anything else other than this?" I nod my head at the terrain.

"Nope." Stevenson says. "I haven't seen anything else. This makes it so much harder to track someone."

I make to move, but Stevenson shoots out his arm.

I look at it, only an inch away from my chest. "What?"

Stevenson says, "I heard something."

I peer behind me, where Stevenson is staring at intently. There is nothing, no sound at all except the whispers of our names.

"If there is another person." I say slowly. "The fog would whisper their name."

Stevenson lets his arm fall gradually, tearing his eyes away. "You're right."

" _Impedimenta_!"

The spell hits me square in the back, and my limbs freeze one by one, stopping me in motion.

" _Stupefy_!" Stevenson is shouting, but it's no use. It would be better if he left, concentrated on his own goal.

" _Incarcerous_!" Stevenson's body snaps into a rigid line as rope winds around him. He falls face first into the mud with a muffled grunt.

She steps into my line of vision, dampness clinging to her curls, mud and water staining her pants.

Now I realize that the fog has been whispering her name, a single short syllable that disappeared under the whispers of ours.

My wand is pointed at my chest.

"That was too easy." She smirks. Her bushy curls tickle my throat as she wiggles her wand out of my tight grasp. She tucks mine inside her Auror-In-Training jacket, and rakes me over with her blue eyes derisively as she steps out of my peripheral vision. A rustle of reeds and she's gone.

I lose count of the minutes that pass, my recording interrupted by a steady stream of the same roaring sensation that burns the bottom of my stomach and pumps my blood harder through my veins. Weasley took back her wand so easily. I couldn't do a thing against her. I didn't have a fucking chance to fight because I didn't hear her name!

My limbs are cold, brittle with the ache of holding a position for too long, and my head is swarming with the urge to chase after Weasley _right now_. But the spell has not worn off yet, and all I can do is wait for Stevenson to struggle out of his bounds.

He's on his back, rolled over after a painful effort in the muck, panting at the grey sky as his hand strains and strains for his fallen wand. Little frustrated sounds come out of his mouth, urging me to echo along with him and _move_ , but both of us are useless.

I feel my shallow breaths in sync with the whispers of the fog, enveloping us in thicker densities now that I cannot bat it away. Weasley might have found the door already. She might have achieved the highest points for her quick find.

Stevenson lets out a guttural grunt as his hand finally closes around Celestia's wand. " _Diffindo_."

The ropes are barely severed.

" _Diffindo!"_

He repeats it over and over, and little by little, he frees his arms and tears the rest of the binds off his legs.

He climbs to his feet shakily. " _Finite Incantatum_."

My head can move. I turn to him and say, "Concentrate!"

" _Finite Incantatum!"_

My limbs drop like stone, and I stumble forward, nearly tripping over my feet. "Fuck it."

Stevenson is looking at me with a worried expression, his hand outstretched like he could catch me if I fell. "How are you going to track her down?"

I clench and unclench my hands. "Give me your wand."

Stevenson blinks. "What? This is Burclove's."

I stick my palm under his nose impatiently. "Give me the wand."

He slowly places it onto my hand, and I clench it fast, feeling the grooves and dips of the carvings on the base. Beech and unicorn hair. I can feel its calm, its confidence and its intelligence.

We are not allowed to simply say 'Accio wand'.

But the Summoning Charm is the most efficient in this situation.

I focus on Weasley's freckled face, on something that can't come off her easily. " _Accio_ _Weasley's knickers_."

Stevenson stares. "What?!"

I say nothing, and wait.

Soon enough, a figure careens into the mud at my feet, struggling, arse lifting into the air again and again and restrained from its destination.

" _Expelliarmus_." I say with a flourish. Both wands fly neatly into my left hand.

Mud flicks from her nails and her boots as she grapples for purchase, trying to crawl away from me.

"This is too easy." I say as I watch her struggle, her face red. I smirk. She knows exactly what I had done.

"You're cheating." She snarls.

"If you listened instead of looking like a pompous prat, you'll realize that Pluvimber said no summoning wands. Summoning anything else is perfectly fine."

Weasley's right hand is digging into the waistband of her pants, fighting to keep it from flying off as her knickers respond to me. "Stevenson." She snaps, her angry blue eyes on him. "Don't just stand there."

Stevenson takes a direct step towards me, then pauses, looking from me to Weasley uncertainly.

"Fuck you!" Weasley snarls as the button on her pants pop off. Her footing slips in the mud and her body hits mine, her bushy hair choking me, her elbow painful as it contacts my stomach and we fall. My back slams into the mud and I feel the air escape me.

For a moment, I don't remember how to breathe.

Weasley's still struggling on top of me, her elbow digging into my lower belly as she tries to pull herself off and snatch away my wand and hers at the same time. I cough and struggle to regain breath as I keep the wands out of her reach.

She punches me in the nose.

"Fuck." I hiss, my head hurting from where it slammed back against the ground, and my nose throbbing from her fist. She's climbing off me now, all three wands in her hand.

I leap for her, and we crash into the ground again, this time with her trapped against the mud. Her chin knocks into the ground, and she lets out a pained moan.

I shove her face harder into the ground, and wrestle the wands from her single-handedly. "Nice try."

She bucks, almost throwing me off. I tighten my grasp on her, shifting my weight so most of it is on her head. She makes some muffled protests, her face half buried in the water and muck. She's useless beneath me, and I say, " _Incarcerous_."

I climb off her and turn to Stevenson. "Catch." I toss him Celestia's wand.

Stevenson fumbles, his eyes still on Weasley.

The ripping sound is too loud, and a blue shredded fabric lands into my hand.

I stare at it.

Stevenson stutters something unintelligible and turns away, his face bright red.

I drop the knickers and step on it, grounding it into the soft mud. "See you later, Weasley."

I leave her behind.

.

* * *

.

The narrow corridor is dimly lit by candles with an everlasting flickering blue light. It casts an inhuman tint on the Aurors who are escorting me—one in front and one behind—and invokes our shadows to become an unearthly hue. Our robes swish in the silence of the coming night, past Aurors who stand guard, past locked cell doors with tiny barred windows. The dementors who used to guard this place are long gone, but their presence still lingers, a sickness. The turns and twists seem to take forever—completely unnecessary—and after yet another flight of stairs spiralling downwards we reach it.

The Auror in front of me presses his hand on the grooved and patterned metal door—like the goblins would at Gringotts. His fingers are a little long, the tips pushing past the hand-shaped dent, but the surface of the door ripples and the indentation transforms to fit him. The sounds of the metal gears inside the door clink and twist and shift in a pixie-like chatter. The final lock releases itself with a thunderous boom.

The door swings open on its own.

A lone man sits on the narrow cot, undisturbed by the presence of three crowding the entrance of his cell, hunched in with his knees tight together and his forearms resting on them, hands clasped like a child.

The smell of urine is strong, and the toilet has a slug climbing up the side. The cover is lifted, and I can see yellow stains patterning the grimy toilet seat. The walls are all stone, sturdy unlike the inhabitants within it, holding candlesticks glowing with the same blue light as the corridors.

He doesn't look up at me. I swallow, and take a step inside.

Behind me, the Aurors immediately shut the door, and the clinks sound again, locking me in with this man.

I listen to the leak in the mildewed sink. The man looks as though he doesn't breathe. His body is as still as the stone around him.

I take a shaky breath. "Father."

He doesn't look up. He doesn't speak. He doesn't acknowledge me.

I might as well be the only one alive in this cell.

"Father." I say louder as I take another step closer. I can't see his eyes. His dirty hair and a glimpse of his nose are all that I can see from his face.

He doesn't say anything. _He doesn't say anything_.

I cross the small cell and kneel in front of him, tilting my head so I am lower than him, looking up at him, looking up into his grey eyes. My inheritance.

"Father." I say. My voice has turned funny. "It's me."

His grey eyes are blank. They blink.

With hesitance, I reach out and touch his right hand.

He recoils from me, clutching his hands to his chest like I hurt him, and turns his face away to stare at the toilet. I swallow hard.

Slowly, I withdraw mine.

There's a lump in my throat, and I swallow again to erase it. It doesn't go away. It's getting harder to keep the pressure in my chest from becoming crushing, and I can feel my thoughts losing themselves to the overwhelming replay of _father jerking away from me_.

He seems to feel the weight of my stare, and shifts over on the cot. He brings his feet onto his thin pillow, his knees to his chest, giving me his back.

He's still again, like the walls around him.

"I got another high score in Simulation Training today." I say.

He says nothing.

"Pluvimber made me partner with Weasley." I continue, after the long pause was drawing my attention to the hitch in my breaths. I close my hands around the edge of the bed. I can't lose composure. I need to think. I need to put away the emotional instincts. "But I beat her."

I wait for his congratulations, his pride, and his smile, but it is pointless. Those abilities were long lost to the soulless place called Azkaban. I draw in another shaky breath.

"So...that's good." I say.

He says nothing.

"It's a good thing." I say.

He does not move.

I shove myself to my feet. "It's an achievement!"

He stares blankly at the wall.

I sigh, and run a hand through my hair in frustration. Again and again, the same thing, the same results. Why do I even bother? Why can't I just let it go?

"Mum will be here to see you soon." I tell him. "She's redecorating obsessively now."

The grey eyes don't even blink.

I shift, and lean closer to him, trying to move myself into his line of sight. But he only pushes himself away again, and turns his back to me.

"Do you want me to come with her?" I ask.

No answer.

I clench my hands tighter. "Do you want me to come alone?"

No sound.

I can feel the pity of the Aurors outside, the ones who cannot see but can infer what happens inside. All of them, everyone, everything mocking and mocking while father treats me like vermin.

"What do you want me to do?" My voice cracks. "Do you want me to stay longer?"

I swallow hard and back away from him. It's excruciating, each step, each that lengthens the distance, as I reach the door.

I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait some more for that scene in mind's eye that should not be expected to happen in reality. Father would notice that I'm leaving now, and say something. He would say 'Scorpius, stay' and look at me in the eye. He would get up from that depraving cot and stand tall again. He would...he would...

I realize that my vision has become slightly blurry. I quickly swipe the back of my hand across my eyes.

Father has not moved.

I turn and knock on the heavy door. The echoing thuds of my knuckles on the metal are greeted by the resounding clicks and clinks of the locks, and I'm faced with the two Aurors again. They watch me with sharp eyes as I step out, and take their positions—one ahead, one behind—to escort me back out.

I catch a glimpse of father one last time before the door closes, and his hands are unclasped. He's examining his right hand.

.

* * *

.

Father had a dulcet voice. It was not melodious, nor sweet, but soft when reading to me and cutting when speaking to those beneath him.

I liked it best when he read to me. It was just the three of us: father, my stuffed hippogriff, and I, on a child's bed with a picture book open and father's voice flowing like a stream in the spring. It was a sound to look forward to at night, when I was sure a Red Cap would pop out from under the bed, or Inferi would make its way out of the closet to drag me back to their lair. On the nights when father didn't read to me, I swore to mother that the Grim was watching me sleep, and begged her to sleep in my room.

Mother's voice, prim and cultured, did not have the same effect that kept away the horrors of the night. Her presence, like father's presence, was enough to make me safe, but she refused because I needed to be able to sleep on my own. _'_ _You'll learn that nasty Goblins and Acromantulas don't live in your room, Scorpius.'_

She was right of course, as I came to discover, but by then even the Grim would have been friendly company.

I take a swig of firewhiskey.

My flat is dark. The lights of the city shine outside, the lamplights bright and interruptive of the peace that comes with the night. I have the blinds closed. It is not truly night when light can chase away the unseen. I let the night manifest in this place, silent and still.

The large spaciousness of a luxury flat holds many places for an evil creature to hide. The king-sized bed has plenty of room beneath it, and is out of my line of sight. The ' _widescreen T.V.'_ —as the Muggles called it—could hide a monster behind it and under it within the drawers of the stand. The small kitchen as well, with the many drawers and cupboards I hardly use, all little nooks and crannies for tinier creatures. But where I sit, in front of the large mirror amongst three other empty armchairs with another liquor bottle, no creatures would reach. It's open, empty. And I can see them in the mirror if they approach me.

I am not my four year old self, in belief that magical creatures would come after me. Father is not his younger self either, with the dulcet voice and a protective arm.

I take another large swig of firewhiskey, and the burn that travels down my throat is welcoming. It promises forgetting.

"Do you want something to approach you?" I say to the person in the mirror. My voice is bitter, my tongue feels thick and clumsy.

The person in the mirror stares back at me, grey eyes and pointed chin. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are drooped. They're red rimmed, like he had been crying. His hair looks like he's pulled at it, sticking up in a crazed ruffle.

"You look like your father." I remark, then laugh, a coarse sound that rises and falls quickly.

"Cheers," I raise my bottle to the man in the mirror, who does the same, "to you, for being who you shouldn't."

I empty the bottle down my throat, the burn drowning away the things waiting in the dark, the things waiting in the morning, the things waiting in my head. My throat protests and I laugh again and sputter, my stomach on fire. There's no more in this one now, it's useless. I smash it against the coffee table, and it sprays little fragments of sparkling crystals everywhere. I smash again. Then again. I take a big piece, it's sharp, and I see a grey eye peering back as I look in.

"Go to hell." I tell the person, and throw the shard at the window.

It hits the blinds and falls gracelessly to the ground.

I grab another firewhiskey bottle near me, and uncork it. The smell beckons me, promising to steal my memories and to hide them so I don't have to see. I press my lips to the cool glass—

The click of my door unlocking alerts me.

I reach for my wand on the coffee table, but my leg shifts sideways under me, and the bottle is too heavy in my hand, tilting me to the side—

My ribs smash into the ground, and I groan as pain erupts all over my left ribs.

In the floor length mirror, I can see the door opening, and a flood of light that enters as it does, violating my flat.

A head becomes visible as I blink my eyes, and she quietly steps inside and closes the door behind her.

" _Lumos_." Her voice is soft, a hushed whisper.

The wandlight makes me squint. It gives her cheekbones prominence, making her face thinner and sharper, accentuating the dark bags under her eyes. Her pale blue eyes glimmer in the light as they meet mine.

I open my mouth, my tongue fumbling.

"Celestia?"

* * *

A/N:

So I will be moving the updates from now on to Saturday mornings, because Friday mornings are simply too hectic. The next update will be on October the 15th.

Tidbit: Rose's wand is Walnut and Phoenix tail feather.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

 **Scorpius**

The tree bark digs into my back when I lean against it, the bumps and grooves rough against my skin despite the cloak I wear over my clothes.

The night air is cool. It holds a tension, the ecstatic anticipation of rain from the angry storm clouds above. They move slow with the barely existent wind, shielding all natural forms of light, leaving a blanket of black so dense I can barely see the silhouettes of my teammates.

I settle in for the wait, stretching out my legs and crossing them at my ankles, and then cross my arms over my chest. The grass tickles my shin where my pants rode up, a friendly prickling sensation. Crickets chirp in the distance, the sounds rising and falling.

Quillon sits with his legs crossed, his lanky frame bent and jutted like an awkward insect. His red rimmed glasses look black in this dark, making him less recognizable than usual. But I know it's him by the tuft of brown curly hair atop his head, like a clown's wig, and the direction he is looking at.

It is not surprising that he is looking at me.

"How is school?"

My question sends his eyes darting in the opposite direction, while his hand grips a handful of grass near his knee.

When he answers, it is a quiet mumble. "It's the same."

Behind him, the rest of the team is spaced out in between the trees. Cas relaxes his muscular bulk against a thick tree trunk, while Sheila picks the petals off a flower. Burt rubs a finger across several times under his nose, and then holds it close to his eyes, examining it. The two others, Neil and Henri, sit a little farther away. Henri's head lolls on Neil's shoulder, content. They are all locked in their own conversations.

The 'Pawns', as Raina calls them, lack vigilance. They wait with ease and unawareness, bored out of their minds, wishing for action to come sooner.

I shake my head to myself. These simple normal citizen volunteers that Jane recruits on the streets are useless. But that was the whole point, I am sure. Jane needs them to be disposable and disconnected enough from the Resistance's inner circle to protect information from falling into the Ministry's hands if teams were caught during missions.

Jane never sent me to lead a mission before. I don't know why she did.

"You alright, S?"

S, the name that I am to be called in front of the Pawns. Jane was not creative with names, and using our initial was her solution to protecting our identity.

Quillon— _Q_ —is looking at me again, his brow furrowed the slightest. He's leading this mission with me, but it feels like he is another one of the Pawns rather than a lieutenant of Jane, eager to answer to me like the five amongst the trees.

"I'm fine." I say quickly. "So is Defense Against the Dark Arts still your highest grade?"

Quillon immediately looks down and begins plucking grass again with his long fingers. "Yeah."

"What about Herbology?" His narrow shoulders seem to rise up, tense. I add, "Have you been doing all your homework?"

"Still failing Herbology." He mumbles, glowering at his shoes.

"So you haven't done your homework."

"I hate homework." He says.

"Then you will be getting three NEWTs in total next year." I say. He will graduate with only four OWLs and 3 NEWTs.

Quillon rips another handful of grass, then opens his palm and lets the strands flutter to the ground. His lips are clammed shut, and he continuously shreds the green around him, dusting his legs with grass. "So what? I'll be out of Hogwarts for good."

I watch him silently, and he tenses under my stare, opening his mouth to say something, but then shutting it.

"Why did you join the Resistance?"

I hear Sheila's voice from where the rest of us sat. It is clear despite her attempts to whisper, for her pitchy voice is obvious.

"I joined fer me girl." Burt says, showing his crooked front teeth. "She's a coward, and didn't want to join. So I'm doin' this fer us."

"What's she like, your girl?" Asks Cas, scratching a hand through his bristle like hair.

"She's a piss-take." Burt says. "Got the brains of a fox."

"She a good shag?"

"The best." Burt sniggers. "You won't last a minute in her."

"She wouldn't want you to last longer." Sheila retorts. "Who'd want your cock? She must be fucking desperate."

"She'll marry me when we makes things right." Burt says. "She'll want to stay with me after we win. I'll be a hero."

Sheila scoffs. "She's got the brains of a flesh eating slug if she thinks that."

Despite myself, I smirk as the others roar with approval.

"...S?"

"Hmm?" I hear my voice responding.

Sheila's high pitchy laugh pierces the air. I cast a quick glance around us, finding it useless to peer into the thick black night. But I don't feel like walking over to tell them to shut up.

"You weren't listening."

I blink and look at Quillon. He does not sound accusing, but I can see it in the set of his mouth: a tight straight line with his bottom lip pushed out a little.

"No, I was." I say.

Quillon stares at me. It's too dark to read his face but he seems to mitigate, and his shoulders droop. "Okay."

He stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankles like I have, and tilts his face towards the sky. "So why did you join the Resistance?"

I take in Quillon's posture, the way his slender neck is offered to the world, the way his hands fall loosely off his lap. He blows a breath out, his lips parting a sliver, lost in his own world.

"That's...hard to explain."

"Be honest, Scorp." He says. I'm pricked with annoyance again at the stupid nickname, but it falls behind another thought, one that is more demanding. He waits, then says, "I'm not going to judge you."

I sit up straight, and Quillon freezes in response.

He is sixteen.

When I was sixteen, everyone talked more than ever. There were people from the Ministry, people in the press, people at school. I remember the hunger for it to be over, to just have the trial be done and over.

"It'll take too long." I say.

"Really?" Quillon rips out another handful of grass.

"I—" He's angry that I'm not telling him. I don't know what to say.

The conversation between the Pawns have fallen further in volume, and I suspect they have caught attention of our commotion.

I lean towards him, balancing my weight on my elbow. I say quietly, "Don't be like this."

Quillon rips out another handful. "Okay."

It doesn't sound sincere.

I pick at the edge of my cloak.

"Why did you join the Resistance?" I ask.

Quillon pauses and readjusts his glasses.

Henri is saying to Neil, "...Maybe something's gone wrong on the other end, that's why the orange sparks haven't shown yet."

Quillon resumes ripping grass. He doesn't look at me.

"They're just slow, mate." Says Cas. "Do you think Jane will let us get caught?"

Burt shrugs. "It's not like she can prevent it if the Ministry's found out their sentries are buggered."

"She can." Cas argues.

 _"_ _Why are you in such a hurry?"_

 _Mother's words make me halt. I stare at the cloak in my hands, too thick for a spring evening._

 _"_ _I'm meeting with some friends." I say._

 _"_ _Who?" Mother leans against the doorframe. She is relaxed after our meal together, a rare smile on her lips._

 _"_ _Mother, I'm not a child." I swing my cloak over my shoulders._

 _"_ _I'm curious." She replies. "You hardly talk to me. You're starting to become a stranger."_

 _My fingers slip on the button. "I've—"_

 _"_ _Been busy, I know." Mother sighs, and straightens herself. "Do I have to drag you back home again, or will you come on your own accord?"_

 _"_ _I'll come." I say, as Herzy opens the door for me._

 _The cool night air hits me like a blast._

 _Suddenly, I don't want to leave. I want to stay with the bright chandelier and the smells of Sunday's Roast, and never face the shadows and silence that marked the outside._

 _"_ _Mother." I say. My voice sounds distant._

 _I feel Mother's hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?" She peers into the night._

 _Jane can. She can accept that I don't want to go there tonight, not when I just had dinner with my mother. She can accept my request and send someone else in my place._

 _Jane's not protective, she's exploitative. Jane doesn't care about my personal affairs, she cares only for my completion of her orders._

 _Perhaps in another world, Jane is forgiving. I would tell Jane that I don't want to do this, and she'll let me go._

 _But this is not that world._

Quillon suddenly shifts, his neck craning.

"S." He says, back to duty. "The orange sparks."

I jolt to my feet, swaying slightly from the numbness in my legs, and grab onto the tree for support.

Indeed, there was a shattering of orange in the far northeastern sky, like fireworks against an inky canvas.

"Get up." I bark at the Pawns.

They all stop in their conversations and look up, alarmed.

"It's time." I say, my wand tight in my hand.

.

* * *

.

There are six floors in total if I include the attic.

It's quiet enough to hear everyone else breathe. I gesture that we start—a raised fist in the air—and we all break into preplanned pairs.

Quillon and I climb the stairs to the top floor. Burt and Cas are right behind us, stopping at the third floor. We pass doors that are silent like the dead, the landings painted in a lack of light.

The room on the fourth floor emits a soft snore, the kind that happens with drooling and exhaustion. I grip my petrol can harder. It would be easier if there was no one in the house. We have to worry about stealth and escape on top of everything else now.

Quillon passes on without stopping, sparing only a quick speculative glance.

The landing is narrow on the fifth floor, a strip that ends at an old wooden door. Quillon, with his eyes on me, tries the knob, his eyes silently asking me to use my wand. But it was not locked and the door swings open easily. He takes another second before turning away, his eyes lingering. Then he and his can of petrol enter the darkness with caution, and I conjure a few witch lights so he doesn't trip and wake the Weasleys downstairs. As he covers the bedroom, I cover the landing; I unscrew the cap and throw it over my shoulder. Yellow, pungent grease slops out in short bursts as I tip the container, letting it splatter the walls and soak the carpet like blood.

 _"_ _You know what the Burrow is." She says._

 _"_ _Yes."_

 _"_ _You and Quillon will lead a group of five there." She paces around me, serious. "The Pawns will take the first, second, and third floor, as well as the garden. You and Quillon will take the fifth and the fourth."_

 _"_ _Yes, Jane."_

 _"_ _You will burn it down with petrol. Muggle-made fire, no wands."_

 _"_ _Yes, Jane."_

 _"_ _And you will be the one to light the match, Scorpius."_

 _I hesitate before I quickly say, "Yes, Jane."_

 _She stops in front of me, mouth tight. "Let's make sure the public thinks of us as Muggle lovers, Scorpius. Let's make sure of that."_

Quillon steps out from the bedroom. He gestures a thumbs up. I nod in return. The bedroom is done, the landing is done. I give my petrol can to Quillon who begins to work on the fourth floor and stairs as I vanish the witch lights, leaving no trace of magic.

It's time to strike the match.

The little match box is new, the matches sitting inside neatly, untouched. I slide it open and pull one out, then flip the box to reveal its rough edge. The red head hits the surface with a flick of my wrist, and a small flame bursts to life.

Quillon's head bobs as he descends the stairs to the third floor, and vanishes out of sight to check on the other floors.

I take a deep breath, and descend the stairs to the fourth floor, the flame flickering with a hunger as though it senses the petrol.

Quillon's hand sticks up from the third landing, a thumbs up.

My shadow flickers on the bedroom door. I envision Weasley's grandparents on the other side, sleeping peacefully. I don't know whether to hope that they will wake or stay sound asleep.

 _"_ _If there are people interrupting, subdue them." Jane says, the coldness in her voice sending shivers down my spine. "And leave them for the fire to finish."_

"What are you waiting for?" Quillon's head pops into view as he hisses. "They're moving onto the garden already!"

The flame is bursting, the heat enveloping my fingers, and I take a final look at the door.

 _"_ _Use 'Impervious'."_

 _"_ _Yes, Jane."_

 _So the fire won't be put out by water._

 _It hits me then, that Jane is truly asking me to do this._

The smell is getting to me, filling my nose and blocking it from sensing anything else. The tiny flame I'm holding wriggles in the air, ready.

 _"_ _Why are you asking me?" You've never asked me to carry out the fear campaigns._

 _She doesn't answer. I hold my breath as I wait for her response._

 _"_ _Scorpius," Jane says, "Have you gone soft?"_

"Come on! Do it already!" Quillon's voice has become high pitched.

I rear my arm back, and toss the little match onto the fifth landing.

The fire explodes upwards a mountain of orange upon contacting the floor, and its tendrils bellow outwards, consuming the stairs step by step, conquering the distance between us. I need to move now. I need to get onto the third floor and light another match, then the second and light another match...

"Scorpius!" Quillon's voice hisses in my ear and I feel his hand, an iron cast around my wrist. He's pulling me, trying to get me to get down.

I grab my wand, my thoughts distant. "Impervious."

The fire roars in delight, and flares. The heat is baking my skin, and I taste smoke, nothing but smoke, smoke in my throat and my nose and...

 _"_ _I want ashes in the morning and front page coverage."_

 _"_ _Yes, Jane."_

 _She studies me for a long moment, then says her dismissal. "Scorpius, don't bother leaving anyone alive."_

On the other side of the closed door, there is a sound. A creak of the floorboard, a sound of a footstep.

The door flings open, and Molly Weasley stands there, eyes wide and enraged.

Quillon drops my wrist and jumps on her, shoving her into the direction of the fire. They fall, their heads skimming the spreading flames. He socks her in the face, once, then twice, relentless.

"EXPELLIAR—"

Arthur Weasley's roar is silenced by a quick wave of my wand, and I blast him back inside the bedroom. His head slams backwards into the wall.

Quillon gives a sharp grunt from the floor, struggling with Molly. She has the upper hand, but her wand is strewn across the landing. She can't finish this struggle. Quillon's eyes are pleading. He's asking me to finish this for him.

"Stupefy!" I point my wand at Molly Weasley. A gasp leaves her as she becomes as stiff as the floorboards, her hair spilling out around her face as she lands on her back.

And they catch on fire.

"Come on, come on!" Quillon shouts, detangling himself from the body on the floor, his clothes blackened and smoking.

Her scream shatters the rhythm of my heartbeats, and I stumble back from her, unable to look away from the melting skin on her forehead...

"MOLLY!" I hear Arthur Weasley scream, see him stagger to his feet. "AGUAMENTI! AGUAMENTI!"

"INCARCEROUS!" I wave my wand blindly as Quillon clenches my hand, pulling hard, and I turn and descend with him. Our feet patter loudly down the steps, everything forgotten while heat and flame nips our heels.

On the third floor, Quillon lets go of my hand, and I snatch another match from the box. The screams and the rhythm of my heartbeat blend together and I don't know which is which. I clench my teeth to the point of pain and strike across the box again. Another flame comes to life.

I toss it, and the fourth floor seems to explode with a wave of fire tearing down the wood, smoke thick and black and stifling. I cough, feeling the smoke curl itself around my throat, a noose. "I-Impervious."

Arthur Weasley's scream shakes my bones. " _MOLLY!_ "

Quillon's dragging me again, and we stampede down the second landing, toss another match, and escape to the living room.

The fire is catching up to us, starved for more flesh.

We stink of fire and petrol as I fumble with the matchbox, our shoes smothering from the occasional flame that caught the petrol on the soles. My hands are shaking visibly, making a quarter of the box spill onto the floor, a scattering of red heads in the dark. The heat bakes our skin, the air becoming hotter and hotter, becoming harder to breathe...

"Quickly!" Quillon is panicking. "Quickly!"

 _"_ _Repeat it." Jane orders._

 _"_ _I pour the petrol, wait for Quillon to signal, then light the match at each floor."_

 _"_ _Do it quick, Scorpius." Jane says, her dark eyes on mine. "It'll be a pity to have you burn."_

My hands are blackened and sweaty. I strike once, then twice. The flame refuses to appear. My fingers feel weak, too weak to keep the match from falling like the rest.

The fire licks the bottom of the stairs, heading for us.

 _But this is not that world._

 _"_ _I'll come visit you." I say after I swallow hard._

 _Mother, confident that she doesn't see anything odd in the front yard, turns her gaze to me._

 _"_ _Stay safe." Mother says._

 _I nod, taking in her waning smile, and the knowledge that she won't see me again for a while. When I am with the Resistance, I can never be sure if I will ever see her again. I can only hope._

 _So I kiss her on the forehead, and give her another promise. "I will."_

I strike it and a flame finally appears, but the sheer volume of the scream from above makes me drop it.

"FUCK!" Quillon shouts and grabs me by the collar, sprinting for the exit as the monstrous flame scorches my sleeve and sings my hair, consuming the living room. I stumble and sprint alongside him, my feet tripping and regaining balance, my lungs struggling to pull in air. Smoke covers everything, clogging my nose, my eyes, and all I feel is Quillon's tight grip and the fabric of my cloak cutting into the back of my neck and the drip of sweat on my brow and the heat, everything is heat and it peels off my skin and blood and bone...

I can still hear screaming.

They sound like Roman's screams.

We stumble out of the house, and make it to the front gate. Here, the Pawns are hooting, cursing, and laughing with their heads thrown back. They're sweating, pupils dilated with adrenaline, and grinning so widely they could split their faces. They clap each other's backs, and stick up the middle finger high into the sky, marked by flickering light behind us. I almost collapse, catching myself on the wooden post that says 'The Burrow'.

"We did it." Quillon is gulping breaths, his hands gripping his knees. "We made it."

"Yeah." I wheeze. The fire tears through a chunk of the roof, rocketing into the sky. An explosion of glass sprays as flames push their way outside the walls, and the Pawns laugh harder. I look at Quillon to see a triumphant grin spreading on his sooty face. Sweat beads on his forehead, glistening in his hairline. His brown curls are singed, his cheeks a brilliant pink.

"Looks like we smoked some Weasleys." Cas slaps me hard on the back, and I lurch forward from the force. "Good on you, mate."

I smile.

Quillon's brown eyes are twinkling. He watches contently as the fire rips through another window, then another, and the roof cave in on itself. The tree in the garden snaps in half, falling into a swarm of flames, a broken torch. Quillon notices that I'm watching him, and moves closer, touching shoulder to shoulder.

"That's your doing, S. Jane's going to be proud." He's breathless.

The smile is still on my face, but I don't feel it. I don't feel what they are feeling, celebrating over.

I don't hear the screams anymore.

"Alright." I say, my voice rough. "We're going to the checkpoint now, before the Ministry sends out Aurors."

.

* * *

.

 **Rose**

I can still taste the mud in my mouth.

As I stare at the ceiling, the same recurring images of the reeds and the fog stare back at me.

In her bed, Celestia sleeps soundly.

I watch her pale gold head, hidden under the comforter, and listen to the rise and fall of her breaths. She doesn't have the Simulation Training today running through her thoughts. She made it back with Stevenson's wand, safe and pleased.

 _He shoves my head into the ground. Mud enters my mouth as I cry out, my teeth sinks into the dirt, the brown water soaking my tongue. My curls are snarled around his long fingers, and his other hand is clenching my wrists to the point of pain. I jerk backward, and he loses his balance for a brief second, not long enough for me to escape, and he shoves down his entire weight onto my head._

 _Tears spring into my eyes, and I know Stevenson is standing there stupidly watching._

I roll over in bed and close my eyes. It only seems to make the memory brighter, branding the images further into my mind.

 _I knew the button was going to pop off a few seconds before it did. It started feeling looser, the waist of my trousers started widening, and when it did, it flew into the reeds like a bullet._

I rub my eyes, and roll over again. The entire moment is still on a replay. It won't leave me.

 _I feel myself slip in the mud, loosing purchase, and crashing into the ground._

 _His breath is hot in my ear, the ragged sound makes me panic. "Nice try."_

I roll onto my back again, staring at the ceiling once more. I can still feel his breath in my ear, the throbbing pain in my chin where it smacked against the ground. My fingers ghost over my right wrist, where his nails bit in harder, where he drew blood. The cuts are tiny; I run my fingers over them several times to determine where they mark my skin.

I glance at Celestia's sleeping form. I haven't told her about the worst part.

 _I catch a glimpse of Stevenson's face before he turns away. There can never be a brighter shade of red. Heat creeps up my neck and scalds my cheeks. The newfound breeze down there makes me want to lock myself in my flat and never see the world again._

I let out a slow breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Match Celestia's rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

 _Stevenson's breathing is laboriously slow. I can hear the forced control over its long drag and long release. Malfoy is long gone, and Stevenson stays in the same spot, unmoving._

 _"_ _Go away." I tell him. It's the mud that makes my words sound wobbly._

 _He clears his throat, and after another long pause, turns and leaves._

 _It takes longer than what I would prefer to get myself to move, to stand up and pull that dratted blue fabric from the mud. There is no way I am putting on that soiled piece of clothing._

 _I feel for the rip in my pants. There is a nice, evident jagged rip right down my rear. It's too large to hide behind my hand, and my trousers are in constant danger of falling off me if I don't keep a tight grip around the waistband._

 _A strip of pale wood catches my attention._

 _Celestia's wand lies in the mud, waiting._

I groan under my breath as I toss and turn. A comfortable sleeping position evades me, leaving me with the irrepressible bombardment of the same event that has already replayed itself hundreds of times already.

Pluvimber's face suddenly appears in mind's eye.

 _Pluvimber's face said everything. I look away. I can't face those green eyes._

 _The hush of sound follows. I can feel every stare, every thought, every question weighing on top of me, pressing me from all sides._

 _Pluvimber's eyes run over my tattered jacket and my repaired trousers._

 _"_ _Whose wand is that?" His eyes pinpoint on my right hand._

 _"_ _Celestia Burclove's."_

 _Pluvimber says nothing. Then, "And is Stevenson still inside?"_

 _"_ _Yes, sir."_

 _Pluvimber's lips form the words, and my heart plummets into the ground before the sound makes it to my ears. "Zero points."_

 _A stunned silence rings out._

 _Zero points._

 _I never received a score of zero points before._

 _I bow my head. "Thank you, sir."_

A sharp tap on the window jerks me upright.

Celestia's still sound asleep.

Another tap. Then another.

I slip from my bed, slide my feet into a pair of warm slippers, and push aside the drapes. A barn owl stares at me curiously, cocking its head and then tapping the window again. This one must be new to mail delivery. I smile at the thought of Celestia's mum, unfamiliar with the workings of the Wizarding world, walking into the post office in Diagon Alley.

The cool night breeze greets my face as I let the owl in, and give it two owl treats. It nibbles them and sticks out its leg patiently.

"Celestia." I call to her as I untie the letter. "Your mum has written to you."

"Hm?" Celestia's voice falls back into the rhythmic sounds of breathing.

"Celestia!" The string falls away, revealing a rather short roll of parchment.

"I'm up, I'm up." Celestia mumbles as she clumsily gets off the bed. "What did my mum say?"

 _Rose,_

 _Your Nan and Granddad were severely injured in a fire. Come to St. Mungo's at once._

 _Mum_

I reread it once. Then twice.

I smell Celestia's lilac shampoo as she leans over my shoulder to read.

"Merlin's beard." Celestia says. She sounds wide awake now. Her pale blue eyes fix on her closet. "Let's get changed."

"You don't have to come." I roll up the letter and toss it onto my desk.

Celestia's already pulling on a pair of jeans. "Well, I'm coming with you."

She snaps on a bra and slips on a striped shirt in two motions, and reaches for her keys.

She stops and stares at me before slipping them into her pocket. I realize that I'm staring at her face with a look of surprise.

"Come on." She jerks into action again. "Let's not wait."

I grab a pair of trousers and nod. The recurring memory and the words are waiting to burst out, but I hold them back, hard.

.

* * *

.

When I step off the landing, it becomes significantly obvious that my heart rate is pounding faster than before. Celestia's breathing has a rougher rhythm, having just climbed four flights of stairs with me.

The sign that says 'Spell Damage' is fading, the black blocked letters chipping at the edges, a hopeless appearance. It is stark against the pristine white walls around, and the dull beige tiled floor. Overhead, the bright lights wash out the colors of the portraits that line the hall straight down. Everyone is present in the frame, sleeping in their chairs with the eerie silence of the dead. I can hear a faint murmuring of voices around the corner of another hallway.

Celestia follows me closely, her eyes wandering this way and that. She has never been inside St. Mungo's before, being a muggleborn with a skill for grace and nimbleness. Her pale face looks washed out in the light, making her look slightly sick.

As we near the bend, the repugnant smell of a potion blocks my nose. I halt, and Celestia bumps into me, her shoulder striking mine. Her eyes are confused.

I was on this floor after the encounter with Raina. This is the floor where Pluvimber said that I was banned from field assignments during my training period.

I remember the nights in the dark with only the aftertaste of potions to keep me company.

I feel Celestia's fingers touch my elbow, a gentle curl of her hand, wrapping itself to hook me back to reality. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head. "It's fine." I pull my arm out of her grasp, and turn around the corner.

"The Fawcetts and the Diggories are all dead—" Dad stops and his head whips up to see me.

The rest of my family follow. Mum's frowning, and Hugo's blue eyes are wide as he searches my face for something. Uncle Charlie sits beside Hugo, sporting a new scar, a shiny pink slash that extends from his temple to the back of his skull in a straight thin line accentuated by his shaved head. He gives me a small smile, "How have you been?"

"I'm fine." I say, wishing that everyone would stop staring. I turn to look at Celestia, who quickly says, "I'll go get something to eat. Which floor is the Visitor's Tearoom?"

"That's the fifth floor." James speaks before I can. Celestia nods and smiles her thanks as she turns to leave.

I hold my words back as her footsteps echo back where we came from. When she turns the corner, I almost want to call her back. The ghost of her fingers lingers on my elbow, and I think of a different scenario, one where I've told her about the nights in the hospital bed, the potions, and the dreams of Raina.

I take a deep breath and face everyone.

There's a mismatch of seats, with Mum, Dad, and Hugo taking up the space of a low wooden bench, and Uncle Charlie taking up a steel stool. Albus and James sit squashed side by side into a venom green couch, while Aunt Ginny stands beside them. Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, her long red hair even longer than I remember, falling to her waist. Uncle Bill stands beside Dad, his ruined face looking weathered and beaten.

Lily smiles when our eyes meet, and pats the floor beside her. "How is Auror training going?"

I force my legs to move—they seem locked in place, too stiff and uncomprehending—and squat beside her. "It's fine."

Lily opens her mouth, but thinks better of it. She looks at the floor and starts braiding her hair.

I take in all the sullen faces. Dad fidgets with his old watch, the one he said Nan had given him for his 17th birthday. He twists it around and around his wrist. No one explains anything.

"So what happened?"

Mum looks at Dad, and Uncle Charlie's gaze bores into the floor. Hugo's eyes flicker to me, and away.

It's a while before Dad speaks. "The Resistance attacked the Burrow."

It was bound the happen, that we were to become targets. The Weasleys. The shining stars and heroes in the eyes of the public. What would be a better target to make a statement with?

"Is Nan and Granddad—"

"They were severely burned." Mum says.

Dad's fingers twitch, and he stops fidgeting. He opens his mouth again.

"The fire, it..." Dad trails off.

I'm starting to envision grotesque, mutilated bodies. "What?"

"Nan's face is burned off." Lily says crisply.

I stare at her thin, pale fingers weaving those red strands in and out and in and out...

"And Granddad's got off easier. He just has bad burns on his arms and legs." Lily's hand wavers for a second before she grips her hair tighter and continues weaving.

"This can't be just from a fire." I say.

"Muggle fires can do quite the damage." Mum says. Her brown eyes are exhausted. "And the Resistance also used the Impervious charm."

That only prevents the fire from being put out by water.

"But there's a flame-freezing charm for a reason—" I say loudly.

"It wasn't used in time." Mum says.

The silence that follows has me wishing that Celestia would come back. I stare at my hands, and imagine the flesh there melted off, glimpses of white bone showing. I push away a shudder, and the thought of blood staining my hands overtakes the image of fire and smoke. My abdomen gives a twinge, as though it was speaking out about the fact that it was sliced open not that long ago, and that I was on this exact floor in St. Mungo's, alone.

"Where's Uncle Percy and Uncle George?" I ask.

"They're both working overtime." Dad says.

"I told them." Aunt Ginny tells dad. He nods absentmindedly.

We fall into another lengthy silence.

"So, you ready for the quidditch practice next week?" James asks Hugo.

Hugo nods. "Yeah, I think."

"You can always try out for a different team if you don't make the Chudley Cannons." I say.

There is a pause.

Hugo's mouth tips downwards. "Actually, I've already made it."

What? "No, you haven't."

Hugo looks up at me with a faint quirk of his eyebrow. "Try-outs were a week ago. I've made it."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He holds my gaze, something accusing in the set of his mouth, then looks back down.

I avoid Mum's eyes. I can feel them searching my face, scavenging for my thoughts, and at the same time accusing me.

He never mentioned it.

But then again, I wasn't around.

I glance down the hallway where Celestia left. She's not coming back. She's leaving us to deal with our emotions privately.

"I'm a beater." Hugo adds, expectantly.

"Congrats." I say.

His mouth twitches and then flattens into a gloomy line. He goes back to staring at his shoes.

The door that we were all waiting around opens, and three Healers shuffle out, tired.

"Just the adults inside." Orders the tall, grey haired witch. "The children can wait."

I bristle at the word 'children'.

Uncle Charlie stands up immediately and follows Aunt Ginny inside. Dad stands up slower, and mum takes his hand and pulls him along as the Healers re-enter. She gives me one last long look as she disappears past the door frame.

When the door shuts, a restless quiet settles over us. James stands up and stretches, yawning big enough for me to see his molars.

"I think I want some tea." He says, rubbing an eye.

"I'll come." Lily lets her hair drop from its half finished braid and pushes herself up, dusting off the back of her jeans.

"Do you want to come too?" Albus asks hesitantly, his eyes darting between Hugo and I.

Hugo gives a single shake of his head. He then watches me, his blue eyes holding mine for what felt like hours.

"I'll stay with Hugo." I say. Hugo looks back down at his shoes. The tension in his shoulders dissipates.

"Alright." James takes off in large strides with his hands in his pockets, with Albus and Lily hurrying to catch up.

I can't shake the feeling that everyone doesn't want to be around me.

The silence grows heavier between the two of us, and Hugo takes out his wand and starts playing with it. He twirls it between his fingers, faster and faster...

"Stop that." My voice sounds slightly shrill.

The sound makes Hugo drop his wand, and he mutters a curse under his breath, shooting me a withering look as he bends to grab it.

"What was that for?" He begins twirling it again.

"Just stop it." I'm on my feet, towering over him.

He stops, looking up at me from him low seating. "Why?"

"It's...stupid." I realize my hands are clenched. I try to relax, but I don't know what to do with my arms that hang at my sides awkwardly. I cross them, and perch gingerly on the arm of the green couch.

The smell of potions is stronger somehow, clogging my nose. I pull my sleeve over my hand and cover my nose and mouth. The scent of my hand cream blocks out everything.

Hugo tucks his wand away, and leans his forearms on his knees. "Mum said you almost died at St. Mungo's."

I give a muffled reply. "Mum's a liar."

Hugo stares at me. "Why are you covering your face?"

I ignore him.

He sniffs the air. "I think I only smell healing potions."

I close my eyes.

"I think I'm going to get some tea." I say.

"Oh." Hugo looks back down at his shoes.

"I'll get one for you too." I say.

He doesn't look back up.

I get up and leave, looking back as I near the corner.

His eyes linger on me, a look of indecision on his face.

I turn the corner and keep walking. It feels as though his eyes are still following me, even when I'm out of his sight. I can't help looking back again, then once again. The hallways are silent and empty.

I continue down the hall, and instead of going into the stairwell, I stop at a door beside a portrait.

 _Alohomora_. The door swings open, and I step inside and quickly close it behind me.

He blinks sleepily upon my entrance. "Rosie?"

I smile. "Hi, Uncle Harry."

* * *

A/N:

This chapter was quite difficult to write, but it's done now! The next one will be up on Dec 31st.

Update:

So...as it turns out, chapter 6 will not be posted on Dec 31st (aren't I amazing at missing writing deadlines *cries in the corner*) BUT I will try very hard to make it by Feb 18th. Hopefully, this chapter won't be as difficult as chapter 5 was...

As you can probably guess from that last sentence...I, uh, haven't started writing it yet.


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